t   V 


V 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 


THE 
NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 


BY 

ADRIANA  SPADONI 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM" 


BONI  AND  LIVERIGHT 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1921, 
BY  BONI  &  LlVERIGHT,  INC. 

All  rights  reserved 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


.    .    .    but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 


A  motion  and  a  spirit  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 

And  rolls  through  all  things. 

r- WORDSWORTH 


2138365 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 


CHAPTER  ONE 

1IT  TELL,  what  do  you  propose?  Come  down  to  facts.  It's 
VV  all  very  interesting  and  ethical,  this  harangue  of  yours; 
I  wouldn't  ask  any  better  if  I  were  the  defendants'  counsel, 
but,  as  the  opposition,  it  is  not  in  line.  Are  you  seriously 
suggesting  that  this  firm  refuse  the  case?" 

"Exactly.  I  thought  I  made  that  plain  at  the  beginning  of 
my  'harangue.' " 

John  Lowell  drew  in  his  upper  lip,  frowned  and  swayed 
slowly  back  and  forth,  as  was  his  habit  when  thinking  out 
some  intricate  point  of  law.  But,  by  the  nervous  tapping  of 
the  fingers  upon  the  desk,  Roger  Barton  knew  that  the  other 
was  not  analyzing  a  point  of  law.  He  was  angry  and  would 
continue  to  sway  thoughtfully  and  tap  with  long,  slim  fingers 
until  he  had  fashioned  a  verbal  sword  with  which  to  slash 
Roger's  repression  to  bits;  then,  smiling,  would  watch  Roger 
flounder  from  abstraction  to  personality,  and  drown  in  the  sea 
of  his  own  anger.  Roger  Barton's  wide  mouth  closed  in  a  firm 
line. 

At  her  stenographer's  desk  by  the  window,  Anne  Mitchell 
leaned  across  her  machine,  her  eyes  on  the  younger  man.  In 
the  year  of  her  secretaryship  she  had  seen  few  men  defy  John 
Lowell  and  none  emerge  with  dignity  from  the  interval  of  his 
silent  tapping. 


Still  Roger  did  not  speak.  Neither  did  he  knit  his  brows 
nor  make  any  outward  sign  of  searching  for  a  more  cogent 
argument  than  the  one  he  had  already  advanced.  His  blue 
eyes  summed  up  the  man  in  the  chair  and  held  his  deduction 
quietly  for  the  other  to  read.  Against  that  look  John  Lowell's 
pretense  of  calmness  finally  splintered. 

9 


io  THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

"If  we  don't,  some  one  else  will;  and  it's  eight  thousand  a 
year  for  whoever  gets  the  Morgan  work." 

Anne  Mitchell  rose  and  came  round  her  desk.  There  she 
stopped,  as  Lowell  reached  the  end  of  his  sentence,  and  stood 
leaning  against  the  edge.  Standing  so,  she  was  slighter  even 
than  one  would  expect,  almost  frail  but  for  a  kind  of  com- 
pactness, a  perfection  of  bodily  finish  that  allowed  no  such 
waste  of  material  as  physical  weakness.  If  Anne  had  been  a 
few  inches  taller,  or  twenty  pounds  heavier;  if  she  had  been 
more  sharply  defined  instead  of  being  a  small  portion  of  space 
cased  in  a  body  for  the  convenience  of  physical  motion;  if  she 
had  obstructed  attention  instead  of  being  almost  fluid  in  the 
unobtrusiveness  of  her  movements,  she  would  long  ago  have 
doubled  her  twenty  dollars  a  week.  As  it  was,  on  the  few  occa- 
sions when  John  Lowell  lent  her  to  other  members  of  the  firm, 
they  always  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment:  "Mitchell?  Oh,  sure, 
send  her  along.  Good."  And  gave  Anne  twice  the  amount 
of  work  they  had  intended. 

"Well?"  John  Lowell  drew  out  his  watch,  murmured 
"four  twenty-seven!"  as  if  he  were  noting  the  amount  to  be 
charged  later,  and  slipped  his  watch  back.  "You  don't  seem 
to  have  anything  very  constructive  to  offer,  do  you,  Barton? 
Our  not  taking  the  case  won't  save  your  friends  on  the  hill." 

"No.  Neither  did  your  refusing  that  railroad  franchise  case 
save  the  public." 

The  older  man  smiled  at  the  reference.  "Too  sticky.  That 
would  have  smelled  to  high  Heaven." 

"Not  a  bit  stickier  or  smellier  than  this."  Roger  now  took 
a  step  forward,  as  if  to  insure  the  aim  of  his  words  through 
the  unexpected  aperture  of  the  other's  momentary  honesty. 
"The  only  difference  is,  that  you  can  put  this  over  without  pub- 
licity. The  smell  would  never  get  beyond  the  office.  No  one 
would  whiff  the  rotten  legal  juggling  that's  going  to  take  away 
those  poor  beggars'  homes.  The  Morgan  Gravel  Company  has 
literally  blasted  away  dozens  of  laborers'  homes,  of  foreigners 
mostly,  in  the  last  ten  years,  and  now  that  they've  come  up 
against  a  few  fighting  Irish,  the  last  stand  on  the  Hill,  they're 
going  to  daub  over  their  proceedings  with  a  coat  of  white- 
wash." 

"Goldwash,"  Lowell  corrected  with  a  grin.  "You  seem 
to  forget  that  these  people  are  going  to  be  paid  for  their  prop- 
erty— whatever  the  judge  decides  is  fair." 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  n 

"His  imagination  may  reach  to  one  hundred.  McLaughlin 
may  prod  him  to  one  hundred  and  fifty." 

"They'll  take  it." 

"Of  course  they  will,  because  Morgan  will  take  the  land 
out  from  under  them  whether  they  accept  the  money  or  not." 

"They  can  appeal.     There's  always  more  law." 

Roger  Barton's  shoulders  hunched.  His  thick,  dry,  blond 
hair  seemed  to  rise  like  an  angry  dog's.  Without  his  moving, 
Anne  felt  that  he  had  crossed  the  space  between  himself  and 
the  other.  Her  small  hands  clenched,  and  she  nibbled  her 
lower  lip  as  she  always  did  in  moments  of  forced  repression. 

"Yes,"  Roger  said  quietly,  "there  is  always  the  law,  more 
law,  for  the  rich,  the  crooked,  the  morally  rotten.  There  is 
always  the  perversion  of  justice,  the  farce  of  an  appeal,  the 
hypocrisy  of  a  judge,  the  pitiful  sight  of  the  'twelve  good  men 
and  true.'  There  is  always  more  law  to  quibble  and  distort  the 
truth." 

"No  doubt."  The  smile  deepened  at  Roger's  vehemence. 
"Only  we  lawyers  don't  usually  express  it  so  frankly." 

"No,  we  don't.  As  long  as  we  stay  in  the  shameful  busi- 
ness." 

John  Lowell's  smile  vanished.  He  looked  at  Roger  with  a 
sudden,  new  penetration,  as  if  he  had  only  just  come  to  the 
realization  of  the  seriousness  of  Roger's  objection.  After  all, 
it  might  be  well  to  temporize  a  little  with  this  hectic  young 
idealist.  The  firm  needed  Roger  in  many  ways,  and.  in 
time,  might  need  .him  more.  With  all  this  popular  truckling 
to  labor  and  democracy,  this  preposterous  inversion  of  com- 
mon sense  and  accepted  order  that  seemed  settling  on  the 
world,  Lowell  &  Morrison  might  come  to  need  a  signpost  in 
the  murk. 

John  Lowell  frowned  thoughtfully.  In  the  six  months  of 
Roger's  connection  with  Lowell  &  Morrison,  John  Lowell 
had,  more  than  once,  admitted  to  old  Morrison  that 
Roger  Barton  had  "principle-itis  in  an  acute  form."  But  as 
he  had  never  seen,  in  the  long  course  of  his  legal  life,  this 
disease  withstand  the  treatment  of  personal  success,  he  had 
kept  his  faith  in  Roger's  final  malleability — and  many  cases 
from  Roger's  knowledge.  This  Morgan  matter  had  escaped 
his  vigilance,  and  he  was  almost  as  angry  with  old  Morrison 
as  with  Roger. 

"Well,"  he  finally  conceded  and  rose  to  indicate  the  inter- 


12  THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

view  at  an  end.  "I  don't  want  you  to  do  anything  you  don't 
believe  in,  Barton.  I'll  give  the  briefs  to  Daniels.  You  need 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"I  never  intended  to  have  anything  to  do  with  it,  nor  with 
any  other  case  from  now  on.  I'm  through." 

For  a  moment  John  Lowell  looked  at  the  younger  man  with 
a  look  of  hatred,  scorn,  and  a  shade  of  envy  so  faint  that  it 
was  gone  before  Roger  could  be  sure  it  had  been.  Then  he 
shrugged  his  acceptance. 

"That,  of  course,  is  for  you  to  decide.  I  would  not  want 
to  try  to  influence  you  in  either  direction.  If  you  feel  there 
is  a  purer  field  for  your  talents,  why,  go  to  it.  The  law  has 
existed  for  several  thousands  of  years  and  will  probably  go 
on."  With  a  cold  smile  that  never  touched  his  eyes,  he  turned 
to  Anne. 

"Miss  Mitchell,  could  you  take  some  letters  right  away?  I 
must  get  them  off  before  five." 

But  Anne  was  coming  slowly  across  the  room  toward  him, 
as  if  drawn  against  her  consciousness.  Now,  at  the  direct 
address  her  face  flushed  to  realization;  she  hesitated,  and  then 
completed  the  distance  with  so  genuine  an  effort  that  Roger 
Barton  felt  her  courage,  and  without  knowing  that  he  moved, 
took  a  step  toward  her,  as  if  answering  the  call  of  her  slight 
frailness  for  physical  support. 

"Do  you  really  mean  that  those  people  are  going  to  be 
maneuvered  out  of  their  homes?  That  the  legal  action  is  only 
a  sham?  That  it's  all  settled  before  we  begin?" 

Always  physical  torture  for  Anne  to  assert  her  beliefs 
against  opposition,  the  flush  flamed  to  a  brick-red  burning, 
her  eyes  grew  smaller,  she  looked  hot  and  swollen.  When 
Anne  blushed  like  this  she  was  ugly. 

John  Lowell  moved  impatiently. 

"Really,  Miss  Mitchell,  a  law  office  is  not  a  church.  It  is 
a  business.  Here  is  a  big  firm  needing  rock  and  gravel,  easy 
to  get  and  close  to  shipping  facilities.  Years  ago,  when  the 
city  was  not  much  more  than  a  village,  a  few  people  built 
some  dilapidated  shacks  on  Telegraph  Hill.  The  Lord  knows 
what  they  paid  for  the  land,  or  whom  they  paid.  Soon  the 
growth  of  the  city  will  force  down  these  shacks.  Morgan 
offers  to  buy  them  now,  and  unless  you  value  them  by  the 
'home  and  fireside,  and  baby's  cradle'  standard  of  every  senti- 
mental tenant,  the  price  is  a  fairly  just  one.  The  people  them- 


selves,  if  not  interfered  with,  will  be  glad  to  take  what  they 
can  get.  On  the  whole,  they're  a  canny  lot.  They  know  that 
it's  only  a  question  of  a  short  time  before  they'd  have  to  go. 
A  city  growing  like  this  has  no  room  to  waste  so  near  its 
water-front  in  rotting  cottages  and  little  gardens.  The  place 
for  small  houses  like  those  is  in  Ocean  View,  or  the  Portrero, 
or  the  Mission  outskirts." 

"But  it  would  take  the  men  hours  to  get  to  their  work  from 
those  places  and" — Anne  shivered — "they're  so  dismal  and 
bleak.  Gray  hills,  and  wind  and  dust.  The  Hill  has  the  Bay 
and  the  islands  and  the  ferryboats  at  night." 

John  Lowell  stared  in  astonishment  and  then  laughed. 

"Really,  Miss  Mitchell,  you  alarm  me.  I'm  afraid  you'll 
be  turning  my  dictation  into  poetry,  and  sending  out  letters 
in  blank  verse." 

The  laugh  cut  Anne's  last  grip  from  the  hope  that  John 
Lowell  had  not  really  meant  what  he  said.  He  was,  then, 
deliberately  doing  this  thing  that  he  knew  was  wrong,  for 
the  money  in  it.  He  was  going  to  tear  away  from  these 
people  perhaps  the  only  external  beauty  their  lives  held. 
Safe  in  his  own  well-appointed  home,  with  all  the  glory  of 
Bay  and  hills  spread  out  before  him,  he  was  going  to  condemn 
these  to  the  gray,  thick  dust  of  the  Portrero,  the  bleak  and 
windswept  hills,  the  dull,  depressing  streets  of  the  Mission 
outskirts.  All  her  life  Anne  had  lived  on  such  a  street  and 
hated  it  with  the  whole  force  of  her  nature. 

He  had  the  power  to  do  this  thing  and  he  was  going  to 
do  it.  Under  the  suave  kindliness  of  his  slim,  perfectly 
groomed  figure,  he  was  like  an  animal  snapping  at  every 
morsel  that  came  his  way.  The  law  suddenly  appeared  to 
Anne  as  a  trick  surface  upon  which  one  walked,  ignorant 
of  the  complicated  mechanism  below. 

Standing  before  John  Lowell,  not  reaching  above  his  elbow, 
she  looked  straight  into  the  eyes  smiling  down  at  her  with 
a  new,  appraising  gleam. 

"Well?"  he  said,  "do  you  feel  that  you  will  be  able  to  get 
them  out  in  plain  prose?" 

Anne  rose  on  her  toes,  because  the  look  in  the  full,  brown 
eyes  above  her  forced  her  to  throw  her  scorn  straight  into  them. 

"No.  I  shall  not  be  able  to  get  them  out  in  prose — nor — in 
any  other  way — after  to-night.  I — I — sha'n't  be  taking  any 
more  at  all." 


14          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

"No?"  he  said  softly,  the  look  changing  to  a  touch  that 
passed  hotly  all  over  the  surface  of  her  body.  "I'm  ex- 
tremely sorry." 

"I — I — couldn't  work  here  another  day,"  Anne  squeaked, 
furious  at  the  ridiculous  picture  she  must  make,  poised  upon 
her  toes,  like  a  silly  little  bantam  pecking  in  a  rage. 

"You  needn't  explain,  Miss  Mitchell,  I  understand — per- 
fectly." And,  without  moving  his  eyes,  Anne  felt  them  now 
include  Roger  Barton.  "I  beg  your  pardon  for  suggesting  it. 
Of  course  you  couldn't — under  the  circumstances.  I  assure 
you — I  understand." 

"Oh,"  Anne  gasped  in  a  cracking  whisper  that  reached  only 
to  John  Lowell  and  deepened  his  touch-like  look,  "you  are — 
rotten." 

Then,  feeling  the  tears  rushing  to  her  eyes,  she  dropped  to 
her  heels  and  walked  back  to  her  desk. 

The  telephone  summoned  John  Lowell.  Roger  Barton  hesi- 
tated as  if  he  were  coming  to  her,  but  she  put  a  sheet  of  paper 
quickly  into  the  machine  and  he  left  the  room.  The  office 
routine  closed  over  the  incident. 

From  long  practice  Anne's  fingers  worked  with  accurate 
independence,  but,  beyond  their  flying  movement,  her  brain 
tried  to  put  in  order  the  chaos  of  her  thoughts.  She  had 
given  up  her  job,  the  best  job  she  had  had  in  the  five  years 
of  her  working  life.  In  another  half  hour  she  would  go  out 
of  the  office,  never  to  return.  She  would  go  home  and  tell 
her  people.  Into  the  heat  of  her  mood,  this  need  to  tell  her 
people  fell  like  a  small,  cold  lump  of  lead.  Something  within 
herself  would  drive  her  to  try  to  make  them  understand,  and 
only  one  fact  would  emerge  clearly  to  them — she  had  lost 
her  job. 

At  five- thirty,  Anne  laid  the  last  letter  on  John  Lowell's 
desk.  As  she  put  on  her  things,  she  knew  that  he  was  aware 
of  every  motion  without  directly  looking  at  her. 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Lowell." 

"Good  night,  Miss  Mitchell."  He  looked  up.  Anne  was 
the  best  stenographer  he  had  ever  had.  In  her  close-fitting 
blue  tailor  suit,  with  a  small  blue  velvet  toque  framing  the 
wonderful  fairness  of  her  skin,  and  the  smooth,  cool  gold  of 
her  hair,  she  was  exceedingly  pretty — prettier  than  John  Lowell 
had  ever  noticed.  With  Roger  Barton  out  of  the  way 

"If  you  reconsider  your  decision  by  morning,  I  won't  re- 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  15 

member  it,"  he  said  with  a  smile  that  she  alone  among  his 
stenographers  had  escaped  so  long. 

"I  shall  not  reconsider,  Mr.  Lowell."  Anne  spoke  with 
a  stiff  primness  that  instantly  dispelled  his  new  interest. 

"Very  well.  Your  check  will  be  sent  you  at  the  end  of 
the  week,  as  usual." 

"This  is  only  Wednesday." 

"That's  all  right.    You've  often  given  overtime." 

"Until  Wednesday,  if  you  please,"  Anne  said  quietly  and 
wanted  to  cry.  Four  days  would  mean  nothing  to  John 
Lowell;  much  to  her. 

"Very  well."    He  picked  up  his  pen  and  Anne  went  out. 

She  heard  Roger  Barton's  voice  as  she  passed  his  door  and 
hurried  on  to  the  elevator.  Down  in  the  street,  the  home- 
going  crowds  flowed  by.  Anne's  eyes  filled  with  tears  and 
she  nibbled  her  lip  to  keep  them  back.  Then  she  joined  the 
northward  current  and  walked  quickly  away. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

THE  Mitchells  lived  in  an  old-fashioned  upper  flat  on  a 
street  that,  before  the  great  fire  of  1906,  had  been  a 
street  of  two-story  wooden  houses  and  small  cottages  set  back 
in  pleasant  gardens.  But  the  fire,  sweeping  the  City's  poorer 
quarters,  had  driven  the  inhabitants  to  the  safety  of  the 
Mission  hills;  the  little  cottages  had  been  converted  into  flats, 
the  houses  raised  and  small,  congested  shops  inserted  below. 
For  the  first  two  years,  until  the  new 'city  settled  to  permanent 
lines,  there  had  been  a  bustle  and  cheap  glitter  through  these 
streets,  a  cosmopolitan  mingling  of  many  different  types  and 
nationalities,  that  had  touched  the  district  faintly  with  romance. 
But  now  the  better  shops  had  gone,  and  only  a  few  frowsy 
Italian  immigrants  continued  in  their  untidy  vegetable  stands; 
disheartened  widows  managed  small  notion  stores  and  bewailed 
to  the  wives  of  the  petty  clerks,  also  nailed  to  the  district  by 
low  rents,  the  mythical  comforts  they  had  enjoyed  "before  the 
Fire." 

The  wooden  houses  were  all  dulled  to  the  same  sad  gray  by 
wind  and  sun  and  rain.  The  once  pleasant  gardens  had  shrunk 
to  occasional  slabs  of  hard  bro^vn  earth  railed  off  with  rusty 
iron  pickets.  The  front  doors  of  the  flats,  raised  three  steps 
from  the  sidewalk,  were  all  exactly  alike,  warped  and  dust- 
grimed,  with  oblong  insets  of  glass  two-thirds  of  the  way  up. 
Behind  these  insets,  in  brilliant  curtains  of  silkoline,  or  con- 
scientious Battenburg  or  negligent  Nottingham,  the  tenants 
expressed  their  individuality  against  the  engulfing  monotony. 
The  Mitchells  had  plain  white  scrim,  of  thick  quality  and 
tightly  drawn  on  a  brass  rod.  The  doors  of  the  upper  flats 
worked  by  an  uncertain  mechanism  managed  from  within. 
When  this  mechanism  broke,  if  one  lived  in  the  top  flat,  one 
descended  the  endless  stairs  and  worked  the  latch  by  hand., 
As  a  child,  Anne  had  dreaded  calling  on  friends  and  ascending, 
watched  suspiciously  from  the  heights  above,  until  her  identity 
was  disclosed.  There  were  ghastly  stories  of  unsuspecting 

16 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  17 

women  who  had  so  opened  to  burglars  and  been  at  their 
mercy. 

As  Anne  unlocked  the  door  the  smell  of  pot-roast  instantly 
enveloped  her,  shutting  away  the  problem  of  her  own  imme- 
diate future  and  the  broad  shoulders  of  Roger  Barton,  hunched 
forward  ii  defiance  of  John  Lowell.  Anne's  lip  quivered. 

"To-nigiit— of  all  nights!" 

Slowly  s>  *  began  the  long  ascent,  enclosed  by  the  thickening 
odor  as  by  the  walls  of  a  narrow  corridor. 

Anne  hated  pot-roast,  not  because  of  itself,  but  for  its  asso- 
ciations. Pot-roast  was  a  pretense.  It  had  not  the  open 
honesty  of  stew.  Pot-roast  was  Mrs.  Mitchell's  final  compro- 
mise in  a  line  of  preference  that  had  started  with  prime  ribs 
of  beef.  It  meant  that  James  Mitchell  had  bet  away  more 
than  the  usual  portion  of  his  monthly  pay-check;  the  meager 
remnant  had  stung  Hilda's  patience  to  rebellion;  her  imagina- 
tion had  leaped  from  the  invariable  shoulder  chops  of  Wednes- 
day evening  to  prime  roast;  but,  before  it  could  safely  land 
upon  that  pinnacle  of  rebellion,  had  tripped  and  clutched  at 
pot-roast.  Anne  sighed  and  went  slowly  on.  At  the  stair-head, 
the  gas  jet,  stuffed  with  cotton  wool  to  keep  it  from  ever  being 
extravagantly  turned  to  its  full  capacity,  shed  a  sickly  light 
through  an  amber  globe.  She  turned  the  cock  ferociously  as 
far  as  it  would  go  and  then  went  on  down  the  hall  to  the 
curtained  niche  just  outside  her  own  hall  bedroom. 

Long  ago  this  niche  had  been  formed  to  hold  the  overflow 
from  the  hall  closet.  Into  it  Mrs.  Mitchell  had  since  crowded 
broken  and  worn-out  pieces  of  household  furniture,  hideous 
bisque  ornaments  of  the  'go's  which  Anne  and  Belle  had  re- 
fused to  have  about,  oil  lamps,  in  case  "something  happens  to 
the  gas";  a  sewing-machine  that  would  cost  more  to  fix  than 
to  replace;  dresses  and  bits  of  carpet,  some  day  to  be  made  into 
new  rugs;  and  the  week's  accumulation  of  laundry  from  which 
she  snatched  and  ironed  pieces  as  she  needed  them.  Years 
ago  Anne  had  tried  to  eliminate  this  niche,  but  when  her 
mother  had  demanded  where  she  should  put  the  things  and 
Anne  had  suggested  burning  them,  Hilda  had  looked  so 
grieved  at  the  implication  of  her  bad  management  in  ever 
letting  them  accumulate,  and  had  asked  Anne  in  so  hurt  a  tone 
to  pick  out  "one  single  thing  that  might  not  be  needed  some 
day,"  that  Anne  relented.  Now  the  niche  was  like  a  malignant 
growth,  too  late  to  operate  upon,  to  which  one  submits.  But 


1 8          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

even  yet  Anne  never  let  the  portiere  quite  fall  to  behind  her 
and  enclose  her  in  this  cemetery  of  odds  and  ends. 

When  she  had  hung  up  her  things  she  went  down  the  hall, 
past  the  dining-room  where  her  father  sat  in  the  rocker  under 
the  hard,  white,  incandescent  light,  staring  at  the  unlit  gas  log 
in  the  grate,  the  evening  paper  spread  on  his  knees.  In  the 
kitchen  her  mother  was  making  gravy  from  the  fat  in  the  bak- 
ing-pan. 

"Hello,  dear.  You're  late.  I  was  just  going  to  begin  with- 
out you." 

Mrs.  Mitchell  wiped  the  perspiration  from  her  face  with  the 
corner  of  a  very  soiled  apron  and  kissed  her  daughter.  She 
was  taller  and  broader  than  Anne,  but  she  had  the  same  long- 
lashed,  deeply-blue  eyes,  and  her  skin  had  once  been  even 
fairer.  It  was  remarkably  white  and  soft  yet  at  the  base  of  her 
throat,  although  there  were  tiny  lines  about  her  ears  and  at 
the  corners  of  her  mouth.  Her  hair  had  been  dark,  however, 
like  Belle's,  and  now  was  a  fluffy  mass  of  gray  curls. 

Anne  always  felt  older  than  her  mother  and  loved  her,  on 
the  whole,  with  a  passionate,  protective  tenderness.  There 
were  times,  however,  when  Hilda's  persistent  cheerfulness  and 
muddled  thinking  annoyed  her,  and  at  long  intervals  Hilda 
disgusted  her.  These  were  the  moments  of  confidence  in  which 
her  mother,  under  the  pretense  of  "warning  the  girls,"  confided 
to  them,  in  general  terms,  "some  of  the  things  married  women 
have  to  put  up  with."  Belle  and  Anne  both  knew  that  these 
confidences  were  the  result  of  her  relations  with  the  small, 
gray  man,  their  father.  Years  ago  it  had  deepened  Belle's  in- 
difference and  Anne's  dislike  to  him. 

"What  is  it  now?"  Anne  took  the  spoon  and  tried  to  beat 
the  lumpy  gravy  to  smoothness.  "He's  just  staring  into  the 
grate." 

Hilda  shrugged.  "That  oil  well,  I  suppose.  I  wish  to  good- 
ness they'd  stop  discovering  gushers  and  copper  and  all  those 
things.  I  thought  when  the  Chinese  lottery  was  put  out  of 
business  we  might  get  a  little  ahead." 

Anne  smashed  at  the  lumps  and  frowned.  "You  ought  to 
have  put  your  foot  down  years  ago,  that's  all  there  is  to  it. 
If  you'd  made  a  real  row  every  time  instead  of  just — just  splut- 
tering sometimes — he  would  have  had  to  sit  up  and  behave." 

Hilda  bridled.  "It's  one  thing  to  talk  and  another  to  do. 
When  you're  married  yourself,  you'll  understand.  By  the  time 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  19 

you  get  'round  to  see  how  you  could  do  it  better,  it's  too  late. 
They've  got  you  saddled  with  a  baby  and " 

Feeling  a  confidence  about  to  descend  upon  her,  Anne 
snatched  the  first  weapon  to  hand. 

"I've  quit  the  office,  mamma." 

Hilda's  mouth  remained  open,  her  eyes  held  the  "if-you- 
only-understood"  look  that  always  accompanied  such  a  con- 
fidence. 

"You  needn't  look  like  that,  moms;  the  world  is  really 
rotating  just  as  usual." 

"Quit!"  Hilda  echoed  in  a  whisper.    "Quit!" 

Anne  nodded.  "But  I'll  get  another  place  in  a  day  or  two, 
don't  worry,  dear." 

"Quit!"  Hilda  echoed  more  faintly,  and  emerged  into  the 
reality  of  the  situation.  "What  for?  I  thought  you  liked  the 
place.  Did  Mr.  Lowell — did  he — anything ?" 

Anne  stamped  her  foot.  "No.  Of  course  he  didn't.  I  did 
like  it  as  far  the  the  general  atmosphere  of  the  office  went, 
although  I've  had  doubts  of  him  lately.  But  to-day  he  came 
out  into  the  open.  He's  a — crook." 

"Good  gracious!     What  did  he  want  you  to  do?" 

"Nothing  special.  But  I  can't  work  in  a  place  where  I  know 
things  are  being  done  that  he's  doing.  I  just  can't." 

Hilda  went  back  to  the  gravy.  She  did  not  want  Anne  to 
work  in  a  dishonest  office,  but  she  did  wish  Anne  had  not  dis- 
covered the  delinquency  of  John  Lowell  for  a  few  days. 

"No,  dear,  of  course  you  can't.  But — suppose  you  don't  tell 
papa  to-night.  It's  gloomy  enough  as  it  is." 

"Why  on  earth  he  should  create  all  the  gloom  is  beyond  me. 
Why  shouldn't  he  be  annoyed?  It  might  do  him  good." 

"Please,  dear." 

"Well,  I'll  see,  moms.    I  won't  promise." 

Hilda  sighed  and  dished  up  the  potatoes.  For  all  her  slim, 
frail  fairness,  Anne  was  very  difficult  to  manage.  As  Belle 
said,  "You  never  know  when  you're  going  to  strike  one  of 
Anne's  principles.  They're  like  deep  sea  mines,  unsuspected 
till  they  go  off  under  you."  Hilda  carried  the  roast  into  the 
dining-room,  Anne  followed  with  the  potatoes,  and  they  sat 
down  to  dinner.  In  silence  they  began  to  eat. 

Through  the  glass  of  the  mantel  above  the  gas  log,  wreathed 
in  asbestos  moss,  Anne  watched  her  father.  He  was  a  small 
man  with  thin,  gray  hair  and  brown  eyes,  faded  from  long  years 


20          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

of  figuring  in  bad  lights.  He  bent  low  over  his  plate,  but  ate 
slowly,  through  habit  acquired  in  an  attack  of  nervous  indi- 
gestion when  Anne  and  Belle  were  children.  There  was  little 
general  conversation  at  the  Mitchell  meals,  although,  when 
James  Mitchell  was  in  a  good  humor,  he  was  inclined  to 
deliver  monologues,  chiefly  against  Radicalism  and  the  Catholic 
Church.  Any  newspaper  mention  of  the  possibility  of  a  strike 
precipitated  the  first,  which  before  its  finish,  by  some  compli- 
cated process  of  logic,  always  included  the  second. 

In  the  office  of  the  Coast  Electric  Company,  where  he  had 
been  an  assistant  bookkeeper  for  thirty  years,  James  Mitchell 
was  known  as  one  of  the  most  faithful  men  they  had.  He 
never  took  a  vacation  nor  objected  to  overtime.  He  had  a 
tremendous  respect  for  every  one  in  authority  above  him, 
and  the  only  temper  the  office  had  ever  seen  him  display  was 
when  one  of  the  younger  clerks  had  tried  to  organize  a  clerks' 
union.  James  Mitchell  had  thrown  down  his  pencil,  whirled 
upon  the  astonished  organizer,  and  demanded  to  know  "where 
the  city  would  have  been  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  men  who 
started  this  company?"  Apparently  he  considered  that  the 
city  would  still  have  been  using  candles.  For  this  act  of 
faith  he  had  been  raised  five  dollars  shortly  after. 

He  disliked  open  conflict  and  in  the  early  days  of  his  marriage 
had  once  left  the  house  to  escape  the  first  real  discussion  be- 
tween himself  and  Hilda  on  the  subject  of  money.  This 
astonishing  act  had  for  years  hung  over  the  home,  and  the 
fear  that  "papa  would  take  his  hat  and  go  out"  had  been  held 
as  an  extinguisher  over  the  children's  quarrels  and  suffocated 
any  tendency  Anne  or  Belle  might  have  had  to  appeal  to  him. 

Anne  could  never  remember  an  age  when  either  she  or  Belle 
had  talked  to  him  of  their  own  accord,  although  there  had  been 
periods  when  her  mother,  driven  by  some  hidden  impulse,  had 
insisted  that  they  "go  and  talk  to  papa.  Tell  him  about  school ; 
he  likes  to  hear  it."  At  thirteen  Belle  had  refused,  and  Anne, 
three  years  younger,  had  managed  to  slip  from  the  obligation 
at  the  same  time. 

They  finished  the  meat  and  vegetables  in  safe  silence  and 
Hilda  gathered  up  the  dishes,  hopeful  of  peace  to  the  end. 
But  the  heavy  stillness  had  weighted  Anne's  already  taut 
nerves,  and  when  her  mother  returned  with  brown  betty  and 
hard  sauce,  and  her  father  came  suddenly  to  consciousness 
of  the  elaborate  nature  of  this  week-day  dinner  with  a  remark 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD          21 

on  the  price  of  butter  and  sugar,  Anne's  hands  went  cold  and 
her  face  flamed. 

"Well,  we  don't  have  it  often,"  Hilda  propitiated,  "but 
sometimes  it  gives  one  a  headache  trying  to  think  of  changes, 
everything's  so  high." 

"And  going  higher."  He  helped  himself  sparingly  to  the 
hard  sauce  and  pushed  it  across  to  Anne,  who  smothered  her 
pudding  in  it.  "And  it'll  keep  on  going  up,  too,  unless  people 
stop  buying.  Women  could  bring  down  the  prices  in  a  min- 
ute if  they  had  the  sense.  Nobody  needs  hard  sauce." 

"They  do,"  Anne  spoke  quietly  without  looking  up.  Her 
mother  tried  to  touch  her  foot  under  the  table,  but  Anne  moved 
just  beyond  reach.  Hilda  began  to  eat  her  betty. 

"They  do,  do  they?"  James  Mitchell  pounced  upon  Anne's 
remark  like  a  small  and  hungry  terrier  on  a  bone.  "They  do? 
Well,  it  would  take  more  than  any  argument  you,  or  anybody 
else  your  age,  could  put  up,  to  show  me." 

"I  don't  doubt  that,"  Anne  shot  at  him,  still  busy  with  her 
dessert;  "nothing  would  convince  you  because  you  don't  want 
to  see,  or  else  you  really  can't  understand." 

"I  can't  understand,  can't  I?  Oh,  no,  I  suppose  nobody 
can  understand  anything  these  days  when  they're  past  twenty- 
five.  I've  been  out  bucking  the  world  for  more  years  than 
you've  lived  in  it,  but  of  course  I've  had  my  eyes  shut  all  the 
time.  Now  see  here,  let  me  tell  you  this,  young  lady,"  he 
leaned  toward  Anne  and  thumped  the  table,  "you've  got  what 
this  whole  country's  got — a  dose  of  blind  staggers.  You  can't 
see  what's  coming  and  you  won't  till  it's  hit  you.  You  go 
ranting  along  about  people  needing  hard  sauce  and  luxuries 
and  you  kick  like  steers  when  the  prices  go  up.  Of  course 
they'll  go  up.  Why  shouldn't  they?  It's  the  law  of  supply 
and  demand.  When  dairymen  find  out  people  'have  to  have 
hard  sauce'  they're  going  to  run  up  butter  and  eggs.  A  fool 
can  see  that." 

"Only  a  fool  can  see  that,"  Anne's  voice  shook  in  spite  of 
herself.  "Why  shouldn't  people  have  hard  sauce?" 

"Don't  you  get  off  any  of  that  Socialistic  jargon  in  this 
house.  I  won't  have  it.  If  I'd  had  any  say  in  the  bringing 
up  of  you  girls " 

"Now,  papa,  please.    The  girls " 

"If  you'd  had  anything  to  say,  Belle  would  never  have  been 
a  trained  nurse,  nor  I  a  special  stenographer.  We'd  both 


22  THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

have  been  wrapping  packages  in  some  department  store  base- 
ment." Anne  rolled  her  napkin  and  rose  in  an  icy  quiet. 

"A  lot  of  good  either  Belle's  nursing  or  your  stenography 
does,"  he  darted  now  down  the  personal  opening  Anne  had 
made  him.  "We  never  see  Belle  except  when  she  has  a  few 
moments  she  doesn't  know  what  to  do  with,  and  she  wouldn't 
help  out  with  a  dollar  if  she  was  asked.  And  as  for  you — 
where  could  you  get  the  board  your  mother  puts  up  for  what 
you  pay?" 

"Now,  papa!    Anne " 

"Well,  I've  quit  my  job,  so  you'll  have  to  board  me  for 
nothing  until  I  get  another  one." 

"Quit!"  James  Mitchell  stared  as  his  wife  had  stared. 
"Quit!  What  for?" 

"Because  John  Lowell  is  dishonest  and  I  won't  work  for  a 
dishonest  firm." 

"How  many  firms  do  you  suppose  are  honest?  You  haven't 
risen  to  the  management  of  a  firm  yet." 

"Nor  have  I  sunk  to  conniving  with  a  thief,  either." 

James  Mitchell  opened  his  lips  and  then,  suddenly  and  un- 
expectedly, leaned  back.  He  looked  shrunken  and  grayer,  and 
he  stared  as  if  he  saw  something  unseen  by  the  others. 

"I've  had — the  same  job — for — thirty — years,"  he  said 
slowly.  "Thirty — years — at  the  same  desk." 

Anne  softened. 

"You  ought  to  have  quit  long  ago.  They've  used  you  because 
you  let  them.  You  could  have  done  better.  You  could  do 
better  now.  Do  you  want  to  quit?  I'll  get  another  place  to- 
morrow and  stake  the  house  till  you  get  a  job." 

"No,  no,  I  don't  want  to  quit.  No."  He  seemed  fleeing  be- 
fore the  suggestion.  The  strangeness  of  the  new  road  terrified 
him  and  he  scuttled  back  to  the  familiar.  "Used  me?  Of 
course  they've  used  me.  A  man  with  a  family  has  to  get  used 
to  being  used.  A  married  man  has  to  put  up  with  things. 
Where  would  you  kids  have  been  if  I'd  have  been  getting  on 
my  ear  all  the  time  you  were  little?" 

"Papa  has  been  faithful,"  Hilda  began,  but  the  sudden  tears 
that  filled  Anne's  eyes  astonished  her  to  silence. 

Without  a  word,  Anne  picked  up  the  plates  and  went  into 
the  kitchen.  Hilda  followed. 

"If  he  only  wouldn't  get  down  behind  that  pretense  of 
having  done  it  all  for  us,  I  might  respect  him,  moms.  But  he 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD          23 

just  burrows  into  that  hole  like  a  gopher  and  you  can't  get 
him  out." 

"Well,  after  all,  dear,  I  don't  suppose  he  would  have  stuck 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  us.  He'd  have  gotten  into  some  kind 
of  a  gambling  scheme  long  ago.  After  all,  he  brings  home 
most  of  his  salary  most  of  the  time." 

And  Anne  saw  herself  a  small  girl  watching  her  mother  divid- 
ing the  contents  of  the  pay  envelope,  counting  and  recounting 
and  finally  tying  up  each  little  package  in  tissue  paper,  as  if 
to  keep  the  tiny  allotments  from  spending  themselves  in  an- 
other department.  They  had  hurt  to  tears,  those  thin  little 
allotments,  and  her  mother's  sigh  as  she  gathered  them  up  and 
went  humming  about  the  housework.  Anne  did  not  answer  and 
they  did  the  dishes  in  silence  until  the  phone  rang.  Hilda  came 
from  answering  it  with  such  a  look  of  relief  that  Anne  smiled. 

"Belle?" 

"Yes.    She's  got  an  hour  off  and  is  coming  up." 

Anne  wiped  the  last  glass  and  put  it  away. 

"Well,  I'm  all  in  and  I'm  going  to  bed.  The  autopsy  will 
have  to  take  place  without  the  corpse."  The  smile  deepened 
as  she  kissed  her  mother.  "All  nice  and  safe  again,  moms?" 

"I  don't  care  what  you  say,  Belle  has  a  practical  mind. 
She  always  seems  to  know  what  to  do." 

"As  if  we  had  a  fever  or  a  dose  of  colic." 

"I'd  a  lot  rather  we  had  things  like  that.  What  with  you 
and  papa,  sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  were  living  in  a  cloud  of 
feathers." 

"You  dear  thing,"  Anne  patted  her  shoulder.  "Well,  Belle 
will  be  along  with  her  spray  in  a  minute  and  wet  us  all  down 
nice  and  flat.  I  don't  suppose  I'll  go  right  to  sleep " 

"She'll  look  in  for  a  minute,  I  guess." 

Anne  laughed.    "She  sure  will." 


CHAPTER  THREE 

BELLE  MITCHELL  was  much  taller  than  Anne  or  Hilda, 
with  straight,  very  heavy  brown  hair  and  brown  eyes. 
She  had  a  jolly,  even  disposition,  was  rarely  hurt  herself, 
never  knew  when  she  hurt  others,  and  felt  competent  to  manage 
any  situation  in  which  she  found  herself.  Her  favorite  ex- 
pression was  "look  facts  in  the  face."  She  loved  Anne  with 
the  same  protecting  tenderness  that  Anne  felt  for  Hilda,  and 
never  understood  the  chain  of  "highfalutin"  reasoning  by 
which  Anne  finally  exploded  into  one  of  her  rare  rages.  James 
Mitchell  had  always  been  a  little  afraid  of  Belle,  but  he  agreed 
with  Hilda  that  she  "had  a  practical  streak."  This  was  sup- 
posed to  have  descended  to  her  intact,  like  an  heirloom,  from 
James'  Scotch  grandmother. 

At  seventeen,  Belle  had  looked  over  the  possibilities  of  the 
future,  left  high-school  and  gone  into  hospital  training.  Four 
years  later  she  was  earning  twenty-five  dollars  a  week.  She  had 
then  left  the  family  and  taken  an  apartment  with  two  other 
nurses.  As  she  explained  to  Anne: 

"The  only  way  to  go  on  caring  for  your  family  is  to  get 
away  from  them." 

She  had  paid  for  Anne's  course  in  a  good  business  college 
and  supplemented  the  family  income  with  five  dollars  a  week, 
until  Anne  was  making  enough  to  pay  her  own  board.  Then 
she  stopped. 

"In  some  silly  streak  she'll  call  'being  honest  with  papa,' 
mamma  will  tell  him,  and  some  race-track  tout  will  get  that 
extra  five.  Or  she'll  have  a  fit  of  rebellion  and  go  off  at  a 
tangent  in  another  washing  machine  or  bread  mixer  or  alumi- 
num contraption  for  getting  a  whole  dinner  under  one  lid, 
and  nobody  will  have  the  benefit.  But  kidlets,"  and  here  Belle 
had  put  her  arms  about  Anne  in  a  way  that  always  melted  any 
hardness  Anne  felt  for  Belle's  practicality,  "this  rule  is  not 
for  you.  If  you  want  any  extras — please,  sisterkin,  ask,  won't 
you?" 

Anne  had  promised,  her  amazement  at  Belle's  ability  to  do 

24 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD          25 

these  firm,  decided  things,  mingling  with  a  sense  of  disloyalty 
to  her  mother  in  recognizing  their  truth.  She  herself  could 
never  have  left  the  house,  nor  stopped  a  contribution,  unless 
she  had  done  it  as  the  final  step  against  pricks  that  Belle  would 
never  have  felt  at  all. 

But  now,  as  Anne  sat  in  the  cool  darkness  of  her  own  little 
room,  looking  out  into  the  fog-wrapped  silence  of  the 
empty  street,  she  was  not  thinking  of  Belle,  nor  of  Belle's 
management  of  "her  case."  She  was  thinking  again,  in  spite 
of  her  effort  not  to,  of  Roger  Barton.  He  had  passed  out 
of  her  life,  and  yet,  in  some  inexplicable  way,  he  seemed  to 
have  suddenly  entered  it  very  intimately. 

In  the  six  months  of  his  connection  with  Lowell  &  Mor- 
rison, Anne  had  seen  more  of  him  than  of  any  man  in  any 
of  the  three  offices  in  which  she  had  worked.  They  had  never 
talked  of  personal  things,  but  of  business  details  and  the 
generalities  into  which  these  seemed  inevitably  to  lead  them; 
discussions,  scarcely  ever  more  than  a  few  moments  long,  of 
plays  and  books  and  Life. 

Anne  envied  Roger  his  university  education  and  Roger  en- 
vied Anne  the  courage  which  carried  her,  after  a  hard  day's 
work,  to  extension  lectures  at  night.  From  these  she  extracted 
a  kind  of  sensory  conviction  of  the  complex  and  interesting 
world  beyond  her  experience.  A  world  of  clear  thinking,  in 
contrast  to  the  muddled  and  confused  mental  processes  of  her 
own  family  and  of  all  the  people  whom  she  had  ever  known ;  of 
aims  higher  than  the  daily  grubbing  for  food  and  shelter  that 
they  called  living.  In  Roger  Barton,  Anne  had  encountered  the 
first  person  who,  born  into  an  environment  like  her  own, 
had  forced  his  way  through  to  this  interesting  and  complex 
world.  Anne  often  wondered  how  he  had  done  it,  but  as  he 
seemed  to  take  his  own  progress  for  granted,  and  had  never 
commented  on  the  achievement,  Anne  had  been  too  shy  to 
ask  him.  And  now  she  would  probably  never  see  him  again. 
Through  the  monotony  of  the  working  day  there  would  be  no 
moment  to  look  forward  to;  no  memory  with  which  to  con- 
trast the  dullness  of  evenings  at  home. 

Out  in  the  great  world  open  to  men,  Roger  Barton  would 
make  another  place  for  himself.  Before  his  ability,  his 
courage  and  his  masculinity,  everything  was  possible.  He 
could  leave  to-morrow  for  distant  countries  and  the  far  strange 
places  he  expected  some  day  so  confidently  to  see.  He  could 


26          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

seek  beauty  and  romance,  limited  only  by  his  own  powers  of 
physical  endurance.  He  could  work  his  way  in  ships  about  the 
world,  or  tramp  alone  across  deserts.  He  was  strong  and  free. 

And  she?  In  a  few  days  she  would  begin  again  to  look  for 
another  place.  Perhaps  she  would  better  her  salary  a  little, 
but  she  would  come  and  go  at  fixed  hours.  For  the  greater 
part  of  the  waking  day  she  would  sell  her  intelligence  and 
strength  to  strangers.  They  would  know  nothing  of  the 
reality  beneath,  nor  would  she  touch  their  lives  at  any  vital 
spot.  Her  father  would  get  over  this  spell  of  depression  at 
his  losses  and  his  annoyance  with,  her  contradiction,  and  the 
house  would  run  smoothly,  like  a  narrow  gauge  train  along  a 
dusty,  uninteresting  depression  between  high  hills;  beyond 
these  she  would  never  see.  It  was  all  so  flat,  so  gray,  so  dead. 
Anne  shivered: 

"Anything  as  ugly  as  this  house  and  the  way  we  live  is 
WICKED." 

Through  the  silence  of  the  lonely  street,  Belle's  firm  step 
echoed  clearly.  The  signal  ring,  three  quick  peals,  brought 
Hilda  running  to  the  stair-head.  The  lever  on  the  landing 
clicked,  far  below  the  door  opened  and  closed  with  a  slam,  and 
Belle  came  gayly  up  the  stairs,  filling  every  cranny  of  the 
house  with  the  force  of  her  cheerful  efficiency,  just  as  if  a 
strong  breeze  had  been  suddenly  admitted. 

"Hello,  moms.  Her  Royal  Highness  decided  she  was  well 
enough  to  let  me  off  for  an  hour,  and  so  I " 

All  sound  suddenly  ceased.  Then  Belle,  with  a  brisk  "Hello, 
papa,"  followed  her  mother  down  the  hall,  past  the  dining- 
room,  and  the  kitchen  door  closed  behind  them. 

Anne  shrugged  impatiently.  No  smallest  change  was  ever 
accomplished  in  the  Mitchell  household  without  this  back- 
ground of  tragedy.  The  news  of  her  action  in  leaving  Lowell 
&  Morrison  was  now  being  "broken"  to  Belle  and  advice  asked, 
exactly  as  if  Anne  had  absconded  with  the  funds  or  tried  to 
commit  suicide.  There  were  no  degrees  of  tragedy  among  the 
Mitchells. 

"I  don't  care,  let  them  talk  it  over  until  there  isn't  a  shred 
of  it  left.  I'm  not  going  to  explain.  They  wouldn't  under- 
stand if  I  talked  all  night." 

Anne  closed  the  window,  turned  on  the  softly  shaded  lamp 
and  chose  a  book  from  the  small  bookcase  at  the  foot  of  the 
white  enameled  bed.  Settled  in  the  chintz-covered  Morris 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  27 

chair,  she  opened  the  book  and  forced  herself  to  follow  the 
lines  to  the  end  of  the  first  page.  But  Roger  Barton's  angry 
gray  eyes  moved  between  the  words  and  Anne  did  not  even 
turn  the  leaf.  The  book  slowly  slid  to  her  lap.  Across  it 
Anne  stared  into  the  future. 

The  sound  of  Belle's  step  coming  firmly  along  the  hall  drew 
her  back  to  the  present  with  a  physical  reaction  of  having 
been  literally  lifted  from  one  spot  and  deposited  in  another. 
And  before  she  had  quite  achieved  equilibrium  in  the  moment, 
Belle  was  tapping  at  the  door.  This  tap  of  Belle's  was  not 
a  motion  of  the  fingers,  but  a  denunciation  of  any  pretense  of 
absence  you  might  be  intending.  It  not  only  declared  Belle's 
certainty  that  you  were  there  but  her  knowledge  of  exactly 
what  you  were  doing. 

"It's  me,  kidlets;  may  I  come  in?" 

Anne  opened  the  door  and  Belle  instantly  filled  the  entire 
room.  Closing  the  door,  she  smiled  down  upon  Anne,  flushed 
and  a  little  stiff  with  the  force  of  her  decision  not  to  be  led 
into  any  apologetic  explanation  of  her  act. 

"Well,  you  certainly  have  done  it  this  time.  I  never  saw 
such  gloom,  and  that's  going  some.  You'd  think  the  sheriff 
was  in  the  parlor  and  the  morgue  wagon  at  the  door.  Tell 
me  the  whole  sad  tale." 

From  an  ivory  cigarette  case,  "a  remembrance  from  an  officer 
patient,"  Belle  drew  a  cigarette  and  lighted  it. 

"Come  on,  'fess  up." 

"You've  been  out  there  half  an  hour  and  have  heard  the 
whole  thing,  more  no  doubt." 

"From  A  to  Z,  and  inside  out  and  I  haven't  got  it  straight 
yet.  Why  did  you  do  it?  That's  what  has  upset  them,  but 
they  don't  seem  to  know  what  it  was.  Why  did  you?" 

"That's  what  they  both  asked." 

"Their  intelligence  must  be  looking  up.  I  gather  that  you 
were  asked  to  do  something  your  conscience  didn't  approve 
and  that  you  up  and  quit." 

"I  wasn't  asked  to  do  anything.  But  John  Lowell  isn't 
straight  and  I  won't  work  for  him." 

Through  her  cigarette  smoke,  Belle  stared  as  Hilda  and 
James  had  done. 

"But,  kiddie,  you'll  never  find  a  business  man  that  is 
straight,  or  an  office  or  any  place  where  you  approve  of  every- 
thing. How  long  do  you  think  I'd  be  a  nurse  if  I  had  to 


28  THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

approve  of  everything  I  see  in  an  operating  room;  people  cut 
up  when  there's  no  need;  often  carelessness  that  would  make 
your  hair  stand  on  end.  My  relation  to  the  surgeon  is  like 
yours  to  Lowell.  I  hand  the  instruments,  and  keep  mum." 

"And  I  quit." 

"So  I  hear,"  Belle  laughed.  "But  what  are  you  going  to  do? 
Ask  for  a  certificate  of  conscience  from  your  next  employer? 
I  say,  sisterkin,  what  do  you  think  business  life  is?" 

"That  depends  on  what  you  want  to  make  it." 

"Rot.  It's  compromise  from  dawn  till  dark;  from  the  cradle 
to  the  grave.  When  you  start  out  you  think  you're  going  to  do 
wonderful  things,  reorganize  everything  and  everybody,  because 
your  own  pet  ideals  are  the  very  finest  ideals  in  captivity. 
And — in  the  end  you're  lucky  if  you  remember  what  they  were. 
Why,  even  I,  and  nobody  would  accuse  me  of  being  senti- 
mental, had  all  kinds  of  ideas  about  what  a  nurse's  vocation 
might  be,  a  kind  of  etherealized  Florence  Nightingale  in  a  per- 
petual ecstasy;  but  when  I  came  up  against  real  patients,  whin- 
ing nervous  women  and  men — well,  Belle  Nightingale  gives  her 
pills  and  powders  now  strictly  according  to  the  doctor's  orders 
and  forgets  most  of  her  patients  with  the  last  pay  check.  The 
whole  thing's  like  Mom's  pot-roast — a  good  solid  makeshift  for 
something  better." 

Anne  shrugged.  "If  Moms  had  never  fallen  for  that  first 
pot-roast " 

"If  Eve  had  never  picked  the  apple." 

"Well?  You  don't  know  what  the  world  might  have  been 
like  if  she  hadn't,  do  you?" 

"I  can  make  a  guess.  It  would  have  been  just  about  as 
it  is — if  not  a  little  worse.  She  would  have  found  a  pear  or  a 
cranberry  or  a  walnut,  any  old  thing."  Belle  leaned  slightly 
forward  and  peered  with  genuine  concern  through  the  thicken- 
ing film  of  tobacco  smoke  at  the  small  blonde  figure,  sitting 
stiffly  now  on  the  bed-edge.  "Anne,  do  you  know  that  I  worry 
a  lot  about  you  sometimes?  I  know  you're  a  good  stenographer 
and  as  economically  independent  as  any  woman,  but  it  always 
seems  to  me  as  if  you  were  out  of  step  with  the  world  in  some 
way.  You  don't  plunk,  plunk  along  with  the  rest  of  us.  You 
— you " 

"Sit  down  on  the  curb-stone." 

"No.  You  mince  along  reluctantly.  I  wish  to  Heaven 
you'd  get  married." 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD          29 

Anne  flushed,  but  Belle  was  grinding  her  cigarette  stub  into 
Anne's  lacquered  pin  tray  and  did  not  notice.  She  ground 
it  into  the  polished  surface  as  if  the  tray  were  the  problem  of 
Anne's  future  and  the  stub  her  own  power  of  settling  the  diffi- 
culty. When  she  had  burned  the  delicate  surface  to  a  black 
spot,  she  went  on.  "But  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  picture  the 
kind  of  man  you  would  marry,  not  with  your  opportunities 
for  meeting  them.  An  ordinary  business  man  would  drive 
you  as  crazy  as  you  would  drive  him.  A  professional  man — 
well,  there's  not  much  difference.  An  up-to-date  doctor,  even 
an  up-to-date  minister,  has  just  as  keen  an  eye  for  the  main 
chance  as  John  Lowdl — and  that's  what  seems  to  upset  you. 
And  even  if  you  found  one  straight  in  business — men  are  rot- 
ten morally,  most  of  them,  and  you're  so — I  don't  know  just 
what  it  is,  Anne,  but  you're  like  a  cool  drink  in  a  very 
clean  glass,  and  men  want  beer  in  an  earthen  mug  when  it 
comes  right  down  to  everyday  diet.  They  want  it  in  women 
just  as  much  as  they  do  in  business." 

"I  don't  believe  it."  Anne  spoke  with  such  vehement  assur- 
ance that  Belle  looked  at  her  sharply. 

"You  don't?    Why  not?" 

Anne  wished  now  that  she  had  not  spoken,  but  the  quickest 
way  to  escape  from  that  gimlet-like  boring  of  Belle's  eyes  was 
to  go  on.  "It  isn't  true  of  all  men.  in  business  and  I  don't 
see  why  it  should  be  true  of  all  men  morally." 

"Did  you  ever  know  an  absolutely  honest  business  man?" 

"Yes."  Anne  felt  her  face  beginning  to  burn,  and  to  escape 
the  look  creeping  into  her  sister's  eyes  she  rose  quickly 
and  began  doing  something  unnecessary  to  the  window  cur- 
tain. She  felt  Belle's  eyes  between  her  shoulder  blades  and 
knew  that  even*  the  back  of  her  neck  was  flaming.  At  Belle's 
low  chuckle  she  bit  her  lip,  dragged  about  herself  the  fast  van- 
ishing wrap  of  impersonal  interest,  and  turned  to  her  sister 
with  an  assumption  of  surprise  that  Belle's  look  shattered  in  a 
moment. 

"Come  on,  sisterkin,  this  is  getting  interesting.    Who  is  he?" 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  any  special  individual.  I — there  must 
be " 

"Cut  it  out,  Anne,  anyhow  with  sister  Belle.  When  a  work- 
ing girl  keeps  her  faith  in  men  for  five  years,  there  is  always 
an  individual." 

"Shut  up,  Belle.    I  loathe  that  cheap  talk." 


30          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

"And  I  loathe  dodging  round  and  pretending.  Who  is  this 
torch-bearer' in  the  darkness  of  the  legal' world?" 

"He  isn't  a  torch-bearer,  but  he's  honest.  Roger  Barton." 
It  was  the  easiest  way,  because-  Belle  would  prod  until  she 
got  it. 

"That  good-looking»young  blond?  Well,  how  does  he  com- 
promise with  his  honesty  and  JcShn  Lowell?" 

"He  doesn't.    He  quit,  too." 

"Well — I'll — be  darned.  You  both  rode  out  of  the  office  on 
the  same  white  palfrey!  When's  the  wedding?" 

"Will  you  please  get  out  of  this  room?" 

"Not  on  your  life.  Not  till  I  hear  the  whole  thrilling  tale. 
Are  you  engaged,  Anne?" 

"No.    Will  you  stop?" 

"What'll  you  bet  that  you  won't  be  inside  a  month?" 

Anne  did  not  answer. 

"All  right.  It  would  be  a  shame  to  take  the  money.  Why, 
if  dad  had  tips  like  that  we'd  have  been  rich  long  ago.  What'll 
you  bet,  then,  that  he  doesn't  ask  you?" 

Anne's  lips  trembled.    "Belle,  please  stop  joking  like  that." 

"But,  kiddie,  the  most  wily  flirt  in  the  world  couldn't  have 
done  better.  Any  man  would  be  flattered  to  death.  You 
don't  suppose  he's  going  to  let  a  kindred  soul — and  a  pretty 
one— slip  out  of  his  life,  do  you?  He'll  look  you  up,  anyhow." 

"No,  he  won't.  I  won't  be  here.  I'm — I'm  going  to  take 
a  vacation,"  Anne  added  in  a  sudden  decision  that  startled  her- 
self. 

Belle  grinned,  and  then,  at  the  tears  that  filled  Anne's  eyes, 
relented. 

"Fine  idea.  You  never  did  have  a  real  one.  Where  are 
you  going?" 

"Quincy." 

"Heavens!     That's  not  a  vacation.    That's  a  penance." 

"I  never  hated  it  the  way  you  do.  I  don't  mind  Aunt  Het, 
and  I'm  fond  of  Janet  and  Bab." 

"If  it's  money,  Anne,  I'll  be  tickled  to  death — Tahoe  or 
Yosemite — or  any  other  real  place." 

"I  loathe  them." 

"You  don't  know  anything  about  them.  Please.  Don't  be 
so  highfalutin'.  I  can  do  it  easily.  Make  it  a  birthday  present 
if  you  like." 

"No,  thanks  just  the  same.    I  don't  mean  to  be  highfalutin', 


but  I  love  the  bluff,  really  I  do.  And  I  am  rather  tired.  I 
just  want  to  lie  out  there  on  the  dunes  and  think." 

Belle's  eyes  twinkled.    "Of  course " 

"Belle  Mitchell,  if  you  go  back  to  that  I'll  walk  straight 
out  of  this  room." 

11  Go  back  to  what?"  Belle  rose  and  took  the  rigid  little  body 
in  her  arms.  "Oh,  come  on,  Anne,  relax  inside  and  out.  Run 
along  and  have  a  grand  time  feeding  the  chickens  and  listening 
to  Aunt  Het  reminisce  and  thank  the  Lord  for  your  simple 
tastes.  When  are  you  going?" 

"To-morrow." 

"Moms  know  it?" 

"Not  yet." 

The  sisters  smiled  at  each  other.  Then  Belle  drew  Anne  into 
her  arms  and  held  her  close,  her  own  cheek  on  the  cool  blonde 
hair,  her  eyes  very  soft  and  tender. 

"You  dear  little  thing,"  she  whispered,  "you  dear — break- 
able—little thing." 

Released,  Anne  tried  to  laugh,  but  she  was  too  queerly  ex- 
cited about  something  that,  as  soon  as  she  was  alone,  was  going 
to  slip  out  from  behind  the  wall  to  which  Belle's  presence  rele- 
gated it.  The  laugh  stopped  at  her  lips  in  a  wistful  little 
smile. 

"Remember,  Anne,  if  you  change  your  mind  you  only  have 
to  phone  me.  I  always  have  some  cash  on  hand.  You  will, 
won't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  will." 

"Honest?" 

"Cross  my  heart  to  die.    And — thanks — awfully " 

"Nonsense." 

Belle  opened  the  door  and  went  briskly  down  the  hall.  Anne 
closed  it  softly,  turned  out  the  light,  undressed,  and  threw  the 
window  as  wide  as  she  could.  Between  the  smooth,  fresh 
sheets  she  lay  waiting  tensely  for  silence  to  settle  on  the  house 
and  leave  her  quite  alone  with  her  own  thoughts. 

At  last  Belle  and  her  mother  went  downstairs,  her  father 
wound  the  cuckoo  clock,  the  door  below  slammed  and  Hilda 
came  slowly  up.  The  hall  light  went  out.  Silence  had  come. 

In  the  soft,  black  stillness,  Roger  Barton  stood  out  clearly, 
his  crisp  blond  hair  electric  with  vitality,  his  wide  mouth  now 
tight  with  repressed  anger,  now  whimsical  with  mirth. 

Would  he  really  look  her  up? 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

FOR  two  days  Roger  Barton  luxuriated  in  his  escape  from 
the  law.  At  twenty-eight  all  experience  had  to  him  the 
nature  of  a  material  thing.  It  was  to  be  grasped,  used  to  his 
need,  and  when  it  failed  him,  dropped.  He  absorbed  what  his 
mind  needed  at  the  time  and  went  on,  as  an  animal  leaves  a 
food  supply,  its  wants  satisfied.  University  and  law  school 
had  been  the  road  to  an  education  offered  by  a  distant,  child- 
less relative  with  an  ambition  to  have  a  profession  in  the  family. 
Roger  now  wrote  and  told  this  relative  he  had  given  up  the 
law,  but  the  old  man's  irate  answer  did  not  disturb  him  in  the 
least.  He  did  not  feel  that  he  had  been  ungrateful  or  that  he 
owed  anything  beyond  the  power  of  his  own  conscience  to  pay. 

He  had  no  definite  plans  for  the  future,  except  a  general 
feeling  that  he  was  about  to  enter  a  real  and  interesting 
world.  In  this  world  there  were  fine,  high  things  to  do,  and  he 
would  probably  be  poor,  for  John  Lowell's  office  had  con- 
vinced Roger  that  ideals  do  not  pay  and  that  nothing  else  is 
worth  while.  He  took  long  tramps  through  the  Marin  hills,  of 
lay  on  the  sand  at  Land's  End  listening  to  the  waves,  and 
dreamed.  In  these  dreams  he  thought  often  of  Anne,  standing 
on  tiptoes  before  John  Lowell.  Now  that  he  would  probably 
never  see  her  again  he  wished  that  he  knew  her  better. 

There  could  not  be  many  women  like  Anne.  She  gave  so 
fully  of  her  time  and  interest,  and  yet  there  were  unstirred 
depths  beneath.  Roger  had  always  felt  them  in  sudden,  sad 
looks  that  passed  across  Anne's  eyes,  in  the  catching  of  the 
breath  that  marked  an  almost  painfully  keen  interest,  in  small, 
quick  motions  and  physical  responses  that  he  had  accepted  as 
mannerisms,  but  now  saw  as  revelations  of  that  courage  and 
ideality  that  was  Anne. 

"It  wasn't  easy  for  her  to  confront  that  rotter,  but  she  did 
it,  the  slip  of  a  beauty-loving  thing!  How  she  must  hate  an 
office!" 

And  she  would  probably  go  into  just  such  another  in  a  few 
days,  perhaps  a  worse  one.  She  might  already  have  found 

32 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD          33 

a  place.  While  he  lay  on  the  sand,  facing  the  full  future,  she 
might  be  bent  above  a  machine,  her  fine  eathusiasm  leashed 
to  the  narrow  demands  of  price  lists,  her  physical  rarity  the 
object  of  some  cad's  coarse  admiration.  The  thought  sickened 
Roger  when  it  first  came  to  him  clearly,  an  employer  trying  to 
touch  Anne's  hand,  pressing  her  knee  as  he  forced  her  to  need- 
less proximity  for  dictation;  Anne,  the  hurt  and  quivering  ob- 
ject of  those  advances  he  had  seen  other  girls  welcome  with 
feigned  annoyance  and  sidelong  glances.  He  rose  quickly  to 
escape  it,  although  he  had  come  to  his  favorite  cove  with  a 
book  for  the  whole  afternoon,  and  began  walking  again  across 
the  dunes.  But  the  picture  moved  beside  him. 

"By  Jove,  it  isn't  right.  A  man  has  a  hard  enough  time 
hanging  to  his  principles,  but  a  girl,  a  worth-while  girl  like  that 
who  has  something  beyond  the  idea  of  attracting  men — it's  a 
shame." 

And  he  could  do  nothing  to  prevent  it.  He  could  not  even 
call  Anne  a  friend.  He  did  not  know  where  she  lived. 

"What  a  simp!"  He  stopped  and  kicked  the  sand  viciously 
and  marveled  at  his  own  stupidity.  For  six  months  he  had 
worked  with  Anne  and  had  never  asked  her  to  go  anywhere 
with  him,  or  tried  to  know  her  better.  He  knew  now  that  he 
had  looked  forward  in  the  mornings  to  seeing  her,  soft  and 
small  and  silvery  fair  at  her  desk.  He  had  snatched  every 
opportunity  to  talk  with  her.  And  had  made  none!  Seen  so, 
now,  from  the  outside,  it  was  incredible  but  true.  He  knew 
nothing  of  Anne  whatever.  Nothing.  She  might  even  be  en- 
gaged to  some  man,  no  better,  under  the  veneer  with  which 
men,  physically  desirous,  deceive  girls,  than  John  Lowell.  Per- 
haps worse. 

Roger  strode  on,  his  shoulders  hunched  now  as  they  always 
hunched  against  obstruction  and  defeat.  He  would  do  some- 
thing to  prevent  the  waste  of  Anne.  He  would  find  Anne  a 
place  where  that  rare  fineness  would  not  be  quite  wasted  in  the 
mechanical  routine  of  mercenary  ambition.  At  least  he  could 
do  that. 

Anne  quivering  with  hurt  of  ugliness,  seeing  the  bay  at  night, 
the  jewel-like  islands,  the  stately  white  ferry  boats,  clinging 
to  them  for  people  she  had  never  known!  He  would  find  a 
place  for  Anne  and  see  her  in  it  before  he  went  out  into  the 
fullness  of  the  future  waiting  for  him.  The  possibility  of 
Anne's  engagement  to  a  worthless  man,  Roger  had  finally  to 


34          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

push  aside,  with  reluctant  concession  to  his  own  ideal  of  her. 
If  Anne  were  engaged,  the  man  would  have  to  be  worth  while. 

For  a  day  and  a  half  Roger  sought  a  place  for  Anne.  His 
own  mail  remained  unopened,  telephone  messages  unanswered. 
About  twelve  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  second  day  he 
found  what  he  wanted.  It  was  with  a  publishing  firm  and  the 
duties  involved  a  wider  scope  than  the  usual  stenography.  The 
surroundings  were  as  pleasant  as  any  office  could  offer,  the 
hours  easy,  the  firm  established,  conservative  to  a  degree  that 
had  always  rasped  Roger's  youthful  enthusiasm,  but  satisfied 
him  when  he  visioned  the  two  white-haired,  old-fashioned  gen- 
tlemen as  Anne's  employers.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  he 
had  forced  the  salary  up  five  dollars  a  month  and  secured  an 
option  on  the  opening  for  two  days. 

From  old  Morrison  he  got  Anne's  address,  and  ten  minutes 
later  so  astonished  Hilda  by  his  insistence  that  he  must  know 
Anne's  whereabouts,  that  she  forgot  the  definite  orders  to  tell 
no  one  and  described  the  Saunders  home  at  Quincy  so  minutely 
that  Roger  could  have  found  it  blindfolded  in  the  dark. 

Three  hours  later  Roger  got  off  the  train,  the  sole  passenger 
for  the  windswept  little  wooden  box  upon  the  dunes.  To  the 
north  and  east  the  dun  sand  swelled  to  mounds  and  rounded 
hummocks,  held  from  their  eternal  drifting  by  bunches  of 
coarse,  gray  grass.  Across  the  narrow  bay,  low  hills,  dense 
and  black  with  chaparral,  each  guarding  at  its  base  a  tiny  white 
beach,  ran  westward  to  the  sea,  beating  on  the  rocky  coast  in 
long,  sobbing  protest  against  the  lashing  wind. 

In  the  vast,  clean  loneliness  of  sand  and  wind  and  sky,  a 
fear  that  had  touched  him  on  the  way  up  that  Anne  might 
think  it  strange  for  him  to  appear  suddenly  like  this,  dis- 
solved. The  silent  emptiness  absorbed  the  misunderstanding 
of  motive,  and  Roger  knew  that  if  Anne  did  not  wish  the 
position  she  would  not  think  him  intrusive.  He  easily  found 
the  half-obliterated  wagon-road  Hilda  had  described  and  took 
it  across  the  dunes. 

As  the  front  gate  creaked  on  its  sagging  hinges,  Barbara 
Saunders  rose  from  the  floor,  where  she  and  Anne  had  been 
trying  to  force  a  faded  blue  dimity  to  contain  a  yard  more 
material  than  it  had  ever  had. 

"I  simply  will  not  wear  the  thing  as  it  is.  Janet  can  say 
what  she  likes — she  doesn't  care  what  she  wears — but  I've  been 
to  six  Quarterlies  in  it — and  I've  reached  my  limit." 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  35 

The  gate  slammed  and  Barbara  turned  to  the  window. 

"Anne!     It's  a  man!" 

Anne  looked  up,  still  puzzling  over  the  impossibilities  of 
the  faded  dimity.  "Do  you  know,  Bab,  I  believe  if  we  ripped 
the  whole  thing  and  turned  the  top  to  the  bottom  and  gored  it, 
we  could  take  all  the  scraps  left  over  and " 

"Come  here,"  Bab  whispered  as  if  the  person  below  could 
hear  through  the  glass.  "He  doesn't  look  like  an  agent.  Who 
on  earth " 

Anne  came  and  stood  beside  her.  With  nose  pressed  to  the 
glass  she  could  just  see  the  top  of  Roger's  hat.  A  loud  knock 
echoed  through  the  house. 

"In  a  hurry,  rather,  isn't  he?  Who "  Bab  turned. 

"Why!  Anne!  Do  you  know  him?" 

Before  the  burning  self-consciousness  in  Anne's  eyes,  Bab 
stepped  back. 

"Will — will — you  open  the  door?  Yes,  I  know  him.  It's 
Mr.  Barton.  He — used  to  be  in  the  same  office." 

Barbara's  sallow  cheeks  flushed  and  her  eyes  scorned  Anne's 
insincerity.  For  five  nights  Anne  had  let  her  go  on,  in  the  dark 
intimacy  of  the  same  room,  piling  up  the  mass  of  her  small 
perplexities,  the  annoying  efforts  at  adjustment  between  herself 
and  Janet  and  her  mother.  And  all  the  time  Anne  had  har- 
bored a  romance.  Anne  was  not  the  small,  shy  cousin,  so 
different  from  Belle,  so  like  themselves  in  spite  of  her  daily 
contact  with  the  great  world  of  business.  Anne  knew  men. 
When  deprived  for  a  few  days'  of  her  society  they  came  long 
distances  to  see  her. 

"Very  well,  I'll  open  the  door.  But  don't  be  long,  please. 
Janet's  cleaning  out  the  chicken  house  and  looks  like  a  fright. 
My  other  waist  isn't  ironed  and  mother's  asleep." 

She  went.  Anne  heard  her  open  the  door  and  lead  Roger 
down  the  creaking  hall  to  the  dining-room,  a  bare,  dilapidated 
room,  with  sagging  floor  beyond  the  skill  of  the  manless  house- 
hold to  repair,  and  woodwork  painted  streakily  by  Bab  and 
Janet. 

Anne  tried  to  hurry,  but  her  cold  fingers  fumbled.  And 
even  when,  at  last,  the  hooks  were  hooked,  the  hairpins  all  in 
place,  and  Anne  stood  with  her  hand  on  the  knob,  it  seemed 
impossible  to  turn  it. 

Why  had  he  come? 

Was  Belle  right?    How  had  she  known? 


36          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

Roger  Barton  looked  up  as  the  rear  door  unexpectedly 
opened  and  Anne  came  toward  him,  with  just  the  degree  of 
welcome  to  express  her  surprise,  and  the  exact  amount  of  pleas- 
ure at  the  sight  of  a  friend.  Her  greeting  angered  and  disap- 
pointed him.  Anne  thought  she  did  it  very  well. 

"Hunting?"  She  tossed  the  word  off  lightly,  as  if  she  had 
many  male  friends  all  deeply  interested  in  the  sport. 

"No,"  Roger  snapped,  annoyed  at  this  assumption  of  social 
manner  in  the  stark,  unfriendly  room,  with  its  stained  walls 
and  broken  floor.  "No.  I  didn't  bring  a  gun.  Besides,  it's 
not  duck  season  yet.  I  never  heard  of  any  other  game  on  the 
marshes,  did  you?" 

"No.    I  don't  think  I  have."    Anne  flushed. 

Her  embarrassment  at  discovery  did  not  soften  Roger;  he 
had  been  too  hurt  by  her  greeting. 

"No.  I  have  no  excuse  except  one  you  may  think  presump- 
tuous. I  heard,  accidentally,  of  a  place  I  thought  might  suit 
you.  But  you'll  have  to  let  them  know  by  Tuesday,  to-mor- 
row if  possible.  It's  with  Wilmot  &  Brown — twenty-five  a 
week." 

Anne  tried  to  look  as  if  she  were  seriously  considering,  but 
she  had  scarcely  heard.  She  had  not  thought  of  this  and  now 
she  saw  so  clearly  it  could  have  been  the  only  reason  for  his 
coming.  He  had  a  deep,  human  kindliness  for  all  misfortune, 
and  she  had  been  unfortunate.  She,  a  working  girl,  had  given 
up  her  place.  He  had  found  her  another  almost  instantly. 

"Thank  you.  It  was  very  kind  of  you.  But  I'm  not  sure  I'm 
going  back  to  town  directly.  My  cousins,"  the  word  contained 
the  broken  floor,  the  scratched  wall,  the  worn  furniture,  "want 
me  to  stay  for  the  rest  of  the  month.  I  may  do  it." 

Through  the  window  she  saw  Janet  wheeling  a  refuse-filled 
barrow  from  the  chicken  run.  Bent  against  the'  wind,  she 
moved,  almost  doubled  above  the  vile  load.  Bab  followed 
with  a  pitchfork.  They  disappeared  behind  the  bam.  Anne 
looked  straight  at  Roger: 

"There  are  no  men  on  the  place  and  the  school  vacations  are 
the  only  time  my  Cousin  Janet  gets  enough  leisure  to  do  any- 
thing. We  have  been  talking  about  fixing  the  fences  and 
mending  this  floor.  If  you'd  come  to-morrow  instead  of  to-day 
you'd  have  found  us  calcimining." 

Roger's  eyes  came  back  to  Anne,  flushed,  defiant,  so  un- 
mistakably proud  and  hurt. 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD          37 

"I  didn't  mean  it  intrusively,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  just 
couldn't  stand  the  thought  of  you  taking  any  old  thing — an- 
other rotter  like  Lowell,  perhaps — where  anything  but  a  ma- 
chine is  wasted.  Please  believe " 

A  sound  from  beyond  the  thin  partition  struck  him  to  silence. 
It  was  a  high,  querulous  voice  calling,  "B — a — b." 

Anne  started.  In  another  moment  Aunt  Harriet  would  come 
trailing  in,  her  frail  hands  moving  gracefully  to  insure  safety, 
her  sightless  blue  eyes  staring  before  her.  It  was  years  since 
Harriet  Saunders  had  talked  to  a  city  man,  a  professional 
man,  a  man  worthy  of  her  own  Harrington  culture,  a  culture 
guarded  through  long  years  with  Hilda  Mitchell's  brother, 
kept  undimmed  to  hand  down  to  "the  girls."  In  another 
moment  she  would  be  there,  winding  about  him  the  snake-like 
coils  of  her  selfish  monopolization. 

"Would  you  mind  if  we  went  outside?"  Anne  whispered, 
partly  because  she  could  so  convey  the  need  for  instant  action, 
partly  to  bear  out  the  quickly  invented  reason.  "Aunt  Het  is 
rather  an  invalid  and  she  has  been  asleep.  If  no  one  answers 
she'll  drop  off  again,  but  if  she  hears  us " 

"Certainly,"  Roger  whispered  back,  and  they  tiptoed  from 
the  room  together,  out  through  the  nearer  kitchen  to  the  yard. 
And  there  Anne  paused.  Where  could  she  take  him?  There 
was  no  spot  on  that  windblown  dryness,  no  garden  nook.  For 
a  moment  she  thought  of  the  barn,  a  favorite  place  of  her 
own.  But  it  was  so  overtoned;  herself  and  Roger  Barton,  who 
had  come  to  tell  her  of  a  position,  sitting  in  the  hay! 

"It  does  seem  inhospitable  to  drag  you  out  on  a  day  like 
this,"  she  began,  but  Roger  cut  her  short. 

"I  like  gray  days,  and  it  may  be  an  extraordinary  taste  but 
I  love  the  wind — in  the  open.  Not  city  wind  filled  with  dust, 
like  the  dead  hopes  of  people  blowing  in  your  face,  but  clean, 
open  wind  like  this." 

Anne's  face  lighted  with  the  pleasure  of  a  shared  sensation. 

"So  do  I.  It  seems  to  blow  all  the  tangles  out  of  the  world 
and  give  every  one  a  chance  to  begin  again — simply." 

"I  guess — maybe — that  is  it — only  I  hadn'f  thought  of  it 
as  a  beginning  again.  It  always  makes  me  feel  courageous, 
like  plowing  straight  on  through  everything,  just  as  it  is." 

Anne  did  not  look  toward  him  instantly,  but  she  felt  him  very 
sharply,  so  much  taller  than  herself,  broad,  with  that  courage- 
ous, crisp  hair,  and  his  clear  blue  eyes  that  could  look  so 


38          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

different  according  to  his  mood.  They  would  be  wide  and 
blue  now,  with  a  light  in  them  as  if  Roger  were  turning  it 
upon  this  "everything"  through  which  the  wind  gave  him  the 
courage  to  plunge.  He  would  be  looking  straight  ahead,  his 
chin  up,  ready.  Anne  turned  a  little,  and  he  was  looking  ex- 
actly like  that.  She  felt  that  she  knew  him  very  well,  and 
then,  that  he  was  rushing  into  the  wind,  away  from  her,  leaving 
her  behind. 

"I  think  you  will,  because — I  don't  believe  you're  ever  afraid, 
are  you?" 

"No — I  don't  believe  I  am.  You  see,"  he  seemed  to  be 
feeling  his  way  carefully  through  this  new  experience  of  dissect- 
ing his  own  impulses,  "there  is  really  nothing  to  be  afraid  of 
in  the  world.  Of  course  there  is  sickness,  but  when  you're  well 
you  don't  go  about  fearing  a  possible  illness;  there's  hard  work, 
but  that's  fun." 

"There's  poverty." 

"Yes,  I  know  there  is,  but,  somehow,  the  poorer  I  am  the 
freer  I  feel." 

"But  it's  so  ugly — always  skimping  and  twisting  and  think- 
ing about  money.  It — it's  stifling." 

"But  you  don't  stay  in  a  state  of  poverty  for  long,"  Roger 
laughed.  "You  get  busy  getting  out  of  it.  But  while  it  lasts 
there's  something  exhilarating  in  being  broke  and  not  knowing 
what's  going  to  happen.  You  know  how  it  feels  on  a  clear, 
cold,  sunny  morning  of  north  wind,  when  the  bay's  all  white- 
caps  and  you  can  almost  see  the  windows  of  every  house  in 
Oakland?  The  air  seems  more  alive  than  at  any  other  time, 
and  everybody  goes  round  with  his  head  up,  smiling.  Of 
course  the  feeling  wouldn't  last  forever,  but,  for  a  time — it's 
like  being  suddenly  freed  from  all  binding  restrictions,  being 
lifted  from  a  groove  and  thrown  suddenly  out  into  new  possi- 
bilities— like  being  picked  up  by  this  wind  and  carried — off 
to  China.  There's  something  safe — and  depressing — about 
a  steady  income." 

Anne  tried  to  smile  in  return.  But  the  tissue- wrapped  allot- 
ments of  her  childhood  were  too  vivid. 

"I  don't  think  it's  the  having  nothing  that  exhilarated  you, 
it's  the  excitement  of  getting  the  next  thing." 

Roger  stopped  and  the  wind  wrapped  them  about.  "I  never 
thought  of  it  that  way,"  he  said  slowly,  "but  perhaps  it  was." 

They  went  on  again  in  a  moment,  their  relation  somehow 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  39 

readjusted.  Roger  felt  masculine  and  dense;  Anne  protective 
and  feminine.  Roger  felt  her  sensitive  and  intuitive  reaction  to 
hidden  impulses,  and  she  his  need  to  be  looked  after. 

Anne  became  conscious  of  this  readjustment  first  and  tried  to 
find  an  impersonal  path  back  to  the  reason  for  having  come  out 
at  all,  but  could  not.  She  grew  gradually  so  conscious 
of  the  physical  motion  of  walking  that  she  felt  she  was  obeying 
a  natural  law  as  inescapable  as  the  force  of  gravity.  She  would 
put  one  foot  before  the  other  until  they  had  reached  the  moan- 
ing sea  two  miles  away. 

By  a  tremendous  effort  she  stopped.  And  then  the  alterna- 
tive of  going  back  to  the  house  and  watching  Aunt  Het's 
python-like  embrace  of  Roger  in  general  conversation,  emerged 
from  subconsciousness. 

"There's  an  old  Indian  graveyard  back  a  little;  would  you 
like  to  see  it?"  Without  waiting  his  agreement,  Anne  turned 
into  a  depression  between  the  dunes  and  led  the  way.  "When 
I  was  a  little  girl,  I  used  to  think  this  was  the  most  wonderful 
place  in  the  world.  We  used  to  dig  up  beads  and  arrow  heads 
and  invent  the  most  conventional  Indian  stories  about  braves 
and  princesses." 

Roger  did  not  answer.  The  wind  swept  across  the  dune 
tops,  leaving  them  in  the  warm  seclusion  of  a  sandy  depression. 
Anne  went  lightly  just  before  him,  small  and  silvery  blonde,  her 
arms  white  and  quiet  by  her  sides,  no  physical  effort  disturb- 
ing her  swift,  quiet  way  over  the  shifting  sand.  A  sudden  turn 
brought  them  to  it  on  a  slope  above  the  dunes.  Anne  stopped 
and  waited  for  him.  Together  they  climbed  the  short  distance 
to  the  small  square  of  parched  earth,  with  its  broken  fence, 
once  whitewashed,  now  peeled  by  sun  and  wind  to  leprous 
patches,  like  the  little  wooden  crosses  that  marked  the  mounds 
within.  At  the  corners  four  gaunt  gum  trees  sighed  and  bent, 
chieftains  wailing  the  degradation  of  the  Christian  burials  be- 
low. Anne  passed  through  an  opening  in  the  fence  and  Roger 
followed,  tense  now  with  the  realization  of  Anne,  of  the  moan- 
ing trees,  of  the  wind  searching  over  the  earth,  and,  far  away, 
the  sea  crying  its  everlasting  plaint  to  the  rocks. 

Up  one  row  and  down  another  they  went,  Anne  trying  to  read 
the  rain-washed  names  on  the  tiny  crosses.  "You  see,  many 
of  them  were  half-breeds,  and  Father  Crowley  was  the  only 
friend  they  really  had  among  the  whites,  and  so  he  managed 
to  baptize  most  of  them  and  bury  them  at  last  with  the  rites  of 


40          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  Church.    I  wonder  what  they  really  felt  while  he  annointed 
them." 

"Like  fakirs,  I  suppose,"  Roger  said  quickly,  and  moved  a 
little  nearer  to  Anne. 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  don't  think  they  felt  like  that. 
They're  all  gone  now  except  one  or  two,  but  when  I  was  a  little 
girl  there  were  a  lot  scattered  through  these  hills,  and  I  knew 
some  of  them.  One  was  very  old,  wrinkled  like  an  oak  leaf, 
with  the  most  piercing  black  eyes.  I  used  to  feel  as  if  he  had 
died,  all  but  his  eyes.  We  called  him  William  Black,  but  he 
had  a  wonderful  Indian  name  we  never  could  pronounce  and 
he  would  never  tell  what  it  meant.  Most  often,  when  we  asked, 
he  would  grunt  and  walk  away,  but  once  he  told  me  that  his 
name  was  dead,  and  if  he  told  it,  it  would  come  back  and  kill 
him.  I  didn't  know  what  he  meant,  but  now  I  think  he  was 
sad  and  ashamed  of  his  people  and  despised  us  too  much  to 
even  tell  us  what  he  had  once  meant  among  them.  He  was 
the  only  Indian  I  ever  heard  of  who  refused  to  be  baptized. 
Nevertheless,  when  he  died  Father  Crowley  buried  him  over 
there.  It  was  really  just  on  the  edge  of  the  consecrated  ground 
then,  but  one  night  the  fence  in  that  corner  was  broken  down, 
and  when  they  put  it  up  William  Black  was  outside.  I  think 
the  others  were  very  proud  of  William,  but  not  so  strong  as 
he." 

"Very  likely,"  Roger  muttered,  and  stepped  nearer  still. 

She  felt  him  so  close  that  the  slightest  motion  on  her  part 
would  touch  him,  strong  and  alive  against  this  eternal  sleep  of 
a  dead  race. 

"On — on — a  clear  day — you  can  see  the  sea — from  here,  and 
the  spindrift — high  as  the  cliffs — in  a  rough  surf."  Her  arm, 
so  slim,  so  white,  like  a  wisp  of  the  fog  caught  in  form,  pointed 
toward  the  muffled  calling. 

Leaning  over  her,  Roger's  hand  closed  gently  on  the  cool 
flesh.  He  drew  her  slowly  round  and  they  looked  silently  at 
each  other. 

"I  think  I  have  always  loved  you,"  Roger  said  at  last,  like 
a  child,  whispering  a  confession  strange  to  itself,  born  of 
the  tender  knowing  in  its  mother's  eyes.  He  did  not  under- 
stand this  thing  himself,  revealed  with  such  sudden  swift  quiet- 
ness, but  the  earth  understood,  and  the  fog,  and  that  old,  old 
race  asleep.  As  if  the  mist  had  parted  and  revealed  it  to  him, 
so  this  love  was  revealed,  something  concrete  in  that  wind-filled 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  41 

emptiness,  something  definite  and  shapeable,  a  thing  he  could 
cup  in  both  hands  and  offer  to  Anne. 

It  had  come.  Belle  had  been  right  and  so  utterly  wrong; 
Belle,  with  her  cheap  experience,  her  world-eaten  deductions 
from  sickness  and  disease.  Roger  Barton  loved  her.  The 
wonder  of  it  held  Anne  to  the  exclusion  of  her  own  feeling. 

Roger  dropped  her  hand  and  Anne  looked  up  quickly. 

"I'm  pretty  clumsy,  Miss  Mitchell,  but "  the  pounding 

in  his  throat  choked  him.  A  piercing  shaft  of  joy  shot  through 
her. 

"You're — you're  not  clumsy  at  all.  And  I — I  would  like 
to  marry  you  very  much." 

Sudden  awkwardness  descended  upon  them.  They  looked 
shyly  at  each  other,  Anne  waiting  for  Roger  to  draw  her  close 
and  kiss  her,  Roger  a  little  frightened. 

Wasn't  he  going  to  kiss  her?  Chill  crept  over  Anne.  And 
then  he  was  drawing  her  to  him.  The  surface  of  her  body  broke 
into  tiny  pricks  of  excitement,  triumph,  awe.  She  could  feel 
his  breath  on  her  face,  see  the  inevitable  approach  of  his  lips. 
Now  he  was  too  near  to  see.  His  lips  were  on  hers.  Suddenly, 
driven  by  the  need  to  reach  through  to  something  beyond  them 
both,  Anne  returned  their  pressure.  Roger  felt  their  clinging 
with  faint  surprise,  deep  tenderness  and  awe. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

THE  following  morning  Anne  and  Roger  went  back  to 
town.     They  strolled  up  Market  Street  to  Third  and 
Kearney  and  there  Anne  stopped. 

"Wilmot  &  Brown,  you  said.  They're  on  Mission,  aren't 
they?" 

Roger  looked  puzzled,  until  he  recalled  the  position  he  had 
found  for  Anne,  and  laughed.  "You're  not  going  to  bother 
with  that  now." 

"I  certainly  am.    Why  not?" 

"You're  engaged." 

Anne  giggled.    "Not  yet.    I  haven't  seen  them." 

"I'm  not  joking.  Listen."  He  drew  her  to  a  doorway  from 
the  hurrying  stream.  "Don't,  dear,  please.  I  don't  like  to 
think  of  you  tied  down  in  an  office,  and  anyhow  it's  not  worth 
while.  We're  going  to  be  married  soon." 

Anne  looked  away  confused,  partly  because  of  the  strange 
feeling  it  gave  to  realize  herself  engaged,  partly  at  the  immi- 
nence of  the  wonderful,  new  experience  of  matrimony  waiting 
her;  and,  beyond  her  own  acknowledgment  in  words,  curiosity 
as  to  how  Roger  planned  to  marry  without  a  position.  In  the 
sweet  intimacy  of  the  trip  from  Quincy,  Roger  had  talked  of  the 
future,  a  future  that  exhilarated  and  frightened  Anne  in  its 
possibility. 

"We're  going  to  live  for  something  worth  while,"  Roger 
had  said,  "and  live  for  it  with  every  scrap  of  the  stuff  that's 
in  us." 

Anne's  eyes  came  back  to  him  with  a  tender  smile. 

"But  we're  not  going  to  be  married  to-day.    Besides,  I " 

Anne  had  not  spoken  much  of  her  family  yet,  but  at  these 
definite  words  of  Roger's  about  marrying,  Anne  realized  what 
a  difference  it  would  make  when  her  income  into  the  house  had 
stopped,  especially  to  many  little  pleasures  she  had  accus- 
tomed her  mother.  "There  are  lots  of  things  I  want  to  get 
and — and — I  like  to  work,  really  I  do." 

42 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  43 

Roger  frowned.  "Will  you  promise  to  quit  the  instant  I  ask 
you  to?" 

Anne  laughed.  "Are  you  always  going  to  boss  me  round 
like  this?" 

Roger's  hand  slipped  into  hers.  "No.  Because  we're  going 
to  want  to  do  the  same  things." 

The  future  was  going  to  be  very  wonderful. 

"And  I'm  going  to  do  some  of  the  wanting  and  you're  going 
to  do  some  of  the  meek  and  mutual  obeying?"  she  teased,  and 
wished  they  were  alone  so  that  Roger  could  kiss  her.  In- 
stead he  dropped  her  hand  and  looked  down  seriously. 

"Do  you  mean,  honestly,  that  you  would  rather  work  until 
we  marry?  I  never  want  to  try  to  persuade  you  to  do  any- 
thing against  a  real  inclination." 

Anne  knew  that  her  puckered  brows  and  serious  lips  were 
weighing,  to  Roger,  hesitation  between  her  own  preference  and 
the  dislike  of  going  counter  to  this,  his  first  expressed  request. 
But  behind  them  the  thought  clicked  away  that  Roger  himself 
could  solve  the  problem  by  accepting  the  opening  of  private 
secretary  to  Hilary  Wainwright,  a  millionaire  ship  owner  and 
philanthropist,  who  had  offered  him  the  place  as  soon  as  he 
heard  that  Roger  had  left  John  Lowell.  But  Roger  was  not 
quite  sure  that  he  believed  in  Wainwright  or  that  he  wanted  the 
place.  The  tick,  tick,  kept  saying:  "Take  the  place  for  a  be- 
ginning and  we  can  marry  to-morrow." 

"Yes,  dear,  I  think  I  do,"  she  said  at  last,  and  added  gayly, 
"Now,  where  is  Wilmot  &  Brown?" 

They  walked  east  to  Mission  Street  and  stopped  before  the 
building. 

"I'll  wait  here  twenty  minutes.  If  you  don't  turn  up  I'll 
know  you're  taken." 

He  sought  her  hands,  and  linked,  they  smiled  at  each  other 
until  a  passing  man  turned  to  look  again,  when  Anne  snatched 
her  hands  away,  and  with  a  whispered,  "Good-by,  dear,"  hurried 
into  the  building. 

Roger  waited  half  an  hour  and  then  went,  disappointed. 

Every  noon  hour  Roger  was  waiting  for  Anne  and  they  had 
lunch  together  at  a  nearby  cafeteria  which  Anne  insisted  was  the 
only  kind  of  place  she  liked  for  lunch.  For  the  rest  of  the 
hour  they  strolled  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  street,  or,  if  it  were 
raw  and  foggy,  sought  some  sheltered  bench  in  one  of  the 


44          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

small  plazas  and  talked.  Roger  usually  did  most  of  the  talk- 
ing, a  running  commentary  on  the  people  they  passed,  which 
linked  the  individuals  up  to  society  as  a  whole.  Roger  was 
always  seeing  people  whom  he  pitied;  starved,  eager  souls, 
thwarted  longings,  stunted  minds,  drudges  in  a  mill  whose 
working  they  did  not  understand,  whose  spiritual  profits  they 
did  not  share.  When  he  pointed  out  these  people  and  qualities 
to  Anne,  she  understood,  because  she  too  had  felt  stifled  and 
thwarted  and  full  of  vague,  high  longing.  But  she  never  quite 
understood  how  Roger  understood,  because  he  never  seemed  to 
long  vaguely,  nor  to  feel  suppressed  or  driven.  As  the  days 
slipped  into  weeks,  Anne  came  to  feel  that  there  was  a  surplus 
of  some  qualities  in  Roger  over  and  above  the  sum  of  those 
same  qualities  in  herself.  She  had  ideals  and  courage  and 
faith,  but  his  ideals  were  sharper  before  him,  his  courage  deep- 
er, his  faith  firmer. 

Roger  never  doubted  the  best  within  himself,  nor  allowed  a 
nervous  over-conscientiousness  to  distort  a  quality  into  its 
reverse.  If  he  had  had  a  family,  he  long  ago  would  have  told 
them  of  his  engagement,  while  Anne  could  not  yet  make  up  her 
mind  what  to  do.  Sometimes  she  saw  her  hesitancy  as  loyalty 
to  Roger,  because  neither  her  father  nor  her  mother  would 
understand  Roger  or  his  standards.  At  others  she  felt  that  it 
was  her  own  need  for  harmony  and  peace  in  the  life  about  her, 
a  need  so  deepgrown  that  it  was  a  weakness  in  its  inability  to 
risk  disturbance.  And  she  knew  how  her  father  would  accept 
a  son-in-law  who  had  no  position,  who  talked  of  the  world's 
misery  as  if  it  really  did  matter  to  him  personally,  who  dallied 
with  the  prospect  of  a  private  secretaryship  at  fifty  dollars  a 
week  to  begin  with  because  he  could  not  quite  prove  to  himself 
Hilary  Wainwright's  sincerity. 

Sometimes,  after  an  irritating  day  in  the  office,  when  old  Mr. 
Wilmot  dictated  worse  than  usual  and,  on  rehearing  the  let- 
ters, declared  he  had  never  used  those  words  at  all,  Roger's 
begging  to  be  allowed  to  come  up  in  the  evening  and  meet  her 
people  annoyed  Anne  almost  to  the  point  of  confessing  the 
main  difficulty. 

It  was  at  the  end  of  such  a  day,  more  than  a  month  after  she 
had  promised  to  marry  Roger,  that  she  came  down  from  the 
office  almost  wishing  Roger  would  not  be  waiting.  It  was  a 
June  day  of  clear  sunshine,  but  with  a  gusty  wind  straight  from 
the  ocean.  The  air  was  filled  with  dust  that  seeped  through 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  45 

clothing  and  got  into  one's  eyes  and  mouth  and  scratched  one's 
nerves  to  snapping.  But  Roger  was  there,  holding  his  hat  on 
with  one  hand  and  making  his  happy  little  gesture  of  welcome 
with  the  other.  Anne  tried  to  smile  cheerfully,  but  it  was  diffi- 
cult with  dust  blowing  into  her  face  and  a  wind  whipping  her 
skirt  about  her.  Roger  came  up  quickly  and  took  her  arm. 

"You  mite  of  a  thing.  It  always  astonishes  me  to  think  of 
you  getting  about  by  yourself." 

Anne  was  glad  that  a  gust  forced  her  to  duck  at  that  moment 
so  that  Roger  did  not  see  her  unsmiling  eyes.  She  was  tired, 
sick  of  getting  around  by  herself,  of  being  respectful  to  that  im- 
possible old  Mr.  Brown,  of  keeping  exact  hours,  every  one  a 
tiny  bit  snatched  from  the  happy  future  of  which  Roger  was 
so  sure.  It  was  one  thing  to  refuse  to  work  with  John  Lowell, 
or  in  the  law  at  all  because  it  was  corrupt  and  unjust,  but  it 
was — to-night  anyhow — just  a  bit  overstrained  to  dally  about 
over  the  possible  insincerity  of  Hilary  Wainwright.  What- 
ever the  man  might  be,  at  least  he  was  doing  real  things  for 
civic  betterment,  the  kind  of  thing  Roger  seemed  to  believe  in. 
If  Hilary  Wainwright's  methods  were  not  exactly  Roger's,  still 
it  was  an  attempt.  And  she  and  Roger  could  many. 

They  had  crossed  the  street  and  now,  in  the  temporary  pro- 
tection of  a  high  building,  were  safe  for  a  few  moments  from 
the  wind.  Anne  could  not  go  on  with  her  head  bent.  She 
looked  up  into  Roger's  smiling  eyes  and  succeeded  in  smiling 
back.  His  fingers  closed  over  hers  and  drew  her  closer  to 
him. 

"You  mite,"  he  whispered,  "you  little,  silvery-gold  princess. 
When  we're  married  I'm  afraid  I'll  worry  every  time  you're 
out  of  my  sight." 

"That'll  be  nice,"  Anne  said  a  little  sharply,  but  she  was 
very  tired. 

Roger  looked  down  quickly. 

"Anne,  when  are  you  going  to  tell  your  people?  It  makes 
me  feel  as  if  you  weren't  sure  yourself.  You  said  at  first  that 
you  wanted  to  'gloat'  all  by  yourself;  that's  very  flattering 
and  I  believe  it  when  we're  together,  but,  sometimes  after  I've 
left  you,  I  feel — Anne,  you  are  sure,  aren't  you?" 

"Of  course  I  am." 

"Don't  they  expect  you  ever  to  marry?" 

"Why,  I  suppose  so.    We  never  talked  about  it." 

"Is  it  me,  'specially,  they  would  object  to?" 


46  THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

For  a  moment  Anne  hesitated.  At  last  he  was  giving  her 
the  chance.  Should  she  take  it?  But  before  she  could  quite 
make  up  her  mind  Roger  was  pleading  again,  and  suddenly 
Anne  felt  her  strength  exhausted.  She  would  not  evade  or 
pretend  any  more.  It  might  as  well  come  now  as  later. 

"All  right,  dear,  if  you  feel  that  way.    Come  up  to-night." 

Roger  gave  her  fingers  a  quick  grip,  and  they  stepped  from 
the  protection  of  the  buildings  into  a  side  crossing.  The  wind 
tore  at  them.  Bent  against  it,  they  reached  the  opposite  curb. 
In  that  interval  Anne  felt  the  matter  had  been  settled  beyond 
change. 

"I  think  I'll  take  the  car  here.  It's  useless  trying  to  walk  in 
this  wind." 

Just  then  Anne's  car  came  into  sight.  They  hurried  out  into 
the  street  and  Roger  helped  her  through  the  crush  about  the 
steps.  It  was  nice  to  have  Roger  making  a  way  for  her,  to 
feel  the  strong,  sure  lift  of  his  hand  under  her  arm,  to  feel 
herself  swung  up  by  such  a  small  expenditure  of  his  strength. 
Now  that  the  decision  was  made,  Anne  was  glad.  After  all,  no 
matter  what  the  conditions,  her  people  would  have  found  some 
objection.  Clinging  to  the  hand-strap  almost  beyond  her  reach, 
Anne  went  over  the  best  ways  of  opening  the  subject  to  them. 

But  in  the  end  Anne  did  not  open  it.  She  was  catapulted 
from  an  unusually  pleasant  meal,  straight  into  it,  by  a  chance 
remark  of  her  father's. 

"I  see  there's  likely  to  be  another  street  railway  strike,"  he 
remarked.  "They  were  running  provisions  into  the  carbarn  as 
I  passed." 

"Well,  now,  that  will  be  a  nuisance."  Hilda  beamed  round 
the  table.  Any  general  conversations  at  dinner  always  made 
her  feel  that  they  were,  after  all,  a  closely  knit  family.  "Thank 
goodness,  I  don't  have  to  go  on  a  car  to  do  any  shopping,  al- 
though those  Saturday  sales  at  the  Sunset  Market  are  quite 
a  save." 

"Didn't  the  company  promise  the  men  not  to  push  that  mat- 
ter of  open  shop  until  the  year  was  up?"  Anne,  like  her 
mother,  was  glad  of  any  general  conversation,  and  had  no  in- 
tention of  bringing  down  the  wrath  of  her  father.  But  he 
peered  at  her  suddenly  over  the  top  of  his  steel-rimmed  glasses. 

"What  if  they  did?  How  long  do  you  think  the  men  would 
have  kept  their  agreement  not  to  agitate  a  strike  if  they  had 
been  in  a  position  to  call  one?" 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  47 

Anne  felt  herself  chill;  a  thin  surface  of  frost  seemed  to  cover 
her  as  it  always  did  when  her  father  talked  like  this.  But 
she  did  not  want  to  anger  him  and  so  she  said  quietly: 

"I  don't  know.  But  I  would  like  to  think  that  there  was 
a  little  decency  and  honesty  in  the  world.  There  must 
be." 

"Well,  it's  not  among  labor  agitators,  let  me  tell  you  that. 
A  greedy,  selfish  lot,  out  for  what  they  can  get.  They  won't 
take  a  job  and  stick  to  it  themselves  and  so  they  try  to  stir 
up  others  to  quit." 

"But  they  couldn't  stir  the  others  up  all  the  time,  if  the 
others  didn't  really  want  to  be  stirred.  Something  is  wrong 
and  people  feel  it." 

When  James  Mitchell  delivered  an  opinion  he  did  not  expect 
to  be  answered,  much  less  argued  with.  He  turned  swiftly  upon 
Anne. 

"What's  that?    Who  feels  things  are  wrong?" 

"A  lot  of  people  feel  things  are  unjust  and  wrong  and  that 
something  has  to  be  done.  They  may  not  be  clear  as  to  exactly 
what  it  is  or  how  they're  going  to  do  it,  but  they  know  there's 
trouble  somewhere."  The  icy  veneer  deepened,  but  Anne  held 
her  ground. 

"Who?  A  lot  of  Jews  and  foreigners  who  never  had  enough 
to  eat  in  their  own  country.  The  trouble  with  this  country  is 
that  the  natives  are  too  good-natured.  They  won't  realize  the 
harm  these  fools  are  doing  until  it's  done.  They  ought  to  be 
deported  now,  every  last  one  of  them." 

Anne  nibbled  at  her  lip  and  did  not  trust  herself  to  speak. 
But  she  saw  Roger,  his  eyes  deep  and  sad,  watching  some 
weary  soul  in  a  city  park. 

"I  think  papa's  right,  Anne.  It  is  mostly  foreigners  that  do 
the  kicking.  Not  the  blonde  kind.  Danes  and  Swedes  are 
hard  workers,  but  Jews  and  Dagos  are  always  fussing.  Don't 
you  remember  that  Greek,  Kapoulos,  who  lived  over  Martini's 
after  The  Fire,  always  haranguing  about  justice  and  fair  play, 
and  the  first  chance  he  got  he  ran  off  with  the  firm's  funds  and 
went  to  Greece?" 

James  shrugged  Hilda's  efforts  aside  and  leaned  across  to 
Anne. 

"Let  me  tell  you  one  thing,  Annie;  these  theories  won't  hold 
water,  socialism  and  I.  W.  W.-ism  and  all  the  other  fire-eating 
babble.  And  they'll  never  be  put  into  practice,  because,  at  bot- 


48 

torn,  the  working  man  is  too  smart  and  he  knows  he'd  lose  his 
job  if  he  tried  them,  and  then  where'd  he  be?" 

James  whisked  the  tail  of  this  inverted  logic  in  Anne's  face 
and  waited  triumphantly.  But  Anne  did  not  see  the  narrow, 
tired  face,  the  small  work-weakened  eyes  of  her  father.  She 
saw  Roger,  hunching  toward  John  Lowell. 

"But  men  do  give  up  their  jobs  for  their  beliefs;  not  un- 
skilled laborers,  but  professional  men  who  have  spent  years 
getting  their  preparation." 

"Bunk!  You  talk  like  a  romantic  school  girl.  Show  me  one 
professional  man,  likely  to  succeed  in  his  line,  and  show  me 
him  quitting." 

"I  will,"  Anne  spoke  with  difficulty,  "to-night.  Roger  Bar- 
ton is  coming  up  this  evening." 

"Now,  I  am  glad  of  that,"  Hilda  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 
"I  wish  you  would  have  more  company,  Anne.  It's  not  my 
fault  the  place  is  not  filled  with  young  folks." 

"Who's  he?"  James  demanded. 

"The  man  I'm  engaged  to."  It  was  scarcely  more  than  a 
whisper. 

At  last  Anne  looked  up,  from  one  to  the  other.  Her  mother 
sat,  the  look  of  pleasure  at  the  prospect  of  young  company 
frozen  in  her  eyes.  Her  father  peered  forward,  still  amused  at 
her  childishness,  triumphant  at  his  own  logic. 

"What  say?"    He  too  whispered.    "You're  engaged!" 

Anne  rose.  Sitting,  she  felt  the  coming  struggle  closing  down 
upon  her. 

"Yes.  I  am  engaged  to  Roger  Barton  and  we'll  be  married 
as  soon  as  he  gets  a  job." 

"You're  engaged  to  a  man  without  a  job!  A  fool,  that 
throws  up  a  profession — fine  profession  it  must  have  been — and 
then  asks  a  girl  from  a  decent  home  to  marry  him!" 

There  was  a  silence,  filled  by  small,  clicking  noises  from 
Hilda.  Then  James  Mitchell  rose  too,  and  with  the  evening 
paper  screwed  to  a  ferule,  banged  his  ultimatum  upon  the  table. 

"No  damned  skunk  like  that  comes  into  this  house,  not  if 
I  know  it.  Do  you  hear?  What  you  do  outside  the  house  I 
can't  help,  and  I'm  not  fool  enough  to  suppose  I  can.  I  never 
did  have  any  say  in  this  house,  nor  about  you  girls.  But  I'll 
have  my  say  about  this  thing  and  now.  If  this  fellow  thinks 
he's  going  to  sneak  into  this  house  and  have  me  support  him, 
he's  going  to  get  left.  Go  ahead.  Marry  him;  a  man  that 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  49 

asks  a  girl  to  wait  till  he  gets  a  job!  Have  half  a  dozen  kids 
and  then  sneer  at  the  state  of  the  world  and  a  steady  job." 
His  rising  voice  reached  a  thin  scream.  "Do  you  hear?  That 
blackguard  never  enters  this  door." 

Anne  looked  at  him,  gray,  thin,  raging,  and  a  sudden  pity 
mingled  with  her  anger.  He  was  so  tightly  locked  within  his 
fear  of  life,  his  terror  of  all  strange  ways  and  wide  roads,  all 
experience  that  had  not  been  his.  In  that  moment,  Anne's 
feeling  for  her  father  parted  in  clearer  strands  than  she  had 
ever  seen  it.  She  scorned  and  pitied  and  disliked  him. 

Without  another  word,  Anne  went  into  the  hall,  took  the 
receiver  from  the  hook,  and  called  Roger's  number.  In  the 
momentary  silence  until  she  got  it,  she  felt  the  two  gray- 
headed  people  peering  at  her,  like  animals  from  a  hole. 

"Yes,  it's  Anne.  I  don't  think  you  can  come  up  to-night, 
dear.  I  twisted  my  foot  getting  off  the  car  and  it's  swelling. 
I'm  going  straight  to  bed." 

Not  even  Roger's  genuine  concern,  nor  his  loving  good- 
night penetrated  the  icy  calm  that  encased  her.  She  hung  up, 
and,  without  looking  toward  the  dining-room,  went  down  the 
hall  to  her  own  room  and  locked  the  door.  Dressed,  she  lay 
upon  the  bed,  staring  up  through  the  window  to  the  stars. 

She  did  not  know  what  time  it  was  when  her  mother  came 
tapping  gently  at  the  door.  But  she  did  not  open,  and,  after 
a  moment,  heard  her  tiptoe  away. 

Out  on  the  back  porch,  Hilda  Mitchell  stood  for  a  long  time 
looking  out  over  the  city  lights  and  trying  to  straighten  her 
world  so  suddenly  upheaved  by  Anne.  But  the  fact  of  the 
engagement  loomed  like  a  blank  wall  before  her  and  finally  she 
gave  up.  With  a  sigh  she  went  in,  locked  the  back  door  and, 
without  turning  on  the  bedroom  light,  undressed  and  got  into 
bed.  Beside  her  the  small  gray  man  huddled  under  the  clothes, 
but,  by  his  stillness  Hilda  knew  that  he  was  not  asleep. 

"Papa,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  harsh  with  Anne.  Young 
folks  can't  be  expected  to  think  ahead  like  old  folks.  Anne's 
not  flighty  or  silly  like  most  girls.  She  won't  do  anything 
foolish." 

"She  can't — after  this.  My  God,  what  a  mess  you've  made 
of  bringing  up  those  girls!  Belle  was  always  an  obstinate, 
headlong  piece  but — little — Annie " 

"Now,  papa.    Have  patience." 

"Oh,  shut  up.    It's  no  good  talking  to  you."    James  Mitchell 


50          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

turned  on  his  side  and  drew  the  clothes  high  about  his  shoul- 
ders. 

For  a  long  time,  Hilda  lay  beside  him,  thinking.  Then,  she, 
too,  sighed  and  turned  over. 

Life  would  have  been  a  simple  thing  to  Hilda  Mitchell  if  it 
had  not  been  for  her  family. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

YOU  didn't  hurt  your  foot  after  all?" 
"No.    I  didn't  hurt  it.    I  didn't  want  you  to  come  and 
it  was  the  first  thing  I  thought  of." 

Roger  crumbled  his  bread  on  the  cloth  and  waited.  Anne 
tried  to  go  on  calmly  with  her  lunch,  but  she  felt  her  face  flush- 
ing and  she  knew  Roger  was  watching  her,  his  eyes  growing 
sterner,  his  mouth  settling  in  that  straight  line.  She  felt 
like  a  trapped  animal,  caught  between  a  quixotic  pity  of  her 
people,  a  pity  seen  most  clearly  in  moments  when  Anne  de- 
tested it  most,  and  her  longing  to  have  Roger  confess,  unaided 
by  an  explanation,  the  understanding  she  was  sure  he  had. 
But  Roger  sat  on  silent,  waiting. 

Before  the  strong,  free  youth  of  Roger,  her  father  and  mother 
shrank,  small,  aging,  pitiful.  Little  gray  things,  scuttling  over 
the  surface  of  their  flat,  uninteresting  world,  never  looking  up, 
their  worried  little  eyes  fastened  on  their  own  food  and  shelter. 
Units,  among  incalculable  millions  of  others,  all  frightened, 
worried,  and  avid  of  personal  comfort.  To  explain  was  to 
strip  them  bare,  tear  off  the  meager  covering  of  their  self- 
respect,  expose  their  one  pride  in  all  its  narrow  rigidity. 

At  last  Anne  put  down  her  knife  and  fork  and  looked  at 
Roger. 

"Roger,  you  asked  me  to  trust  you,  yesterday.  Won't  you 
trust  me?  You're  right,  I  was  not  ill.  Something  did  happen 
and  I  couldn't  have  you  come." 

But  no  generous  yielding  softened  Roger's  eyes. 

"It's  different,  Anne.  Yesterday,  when  I  asked  you  to  have 
faith  in  me,  it  was  a  question  between  ourselves.  But  this — 
there  are  others.  I  feel  surrounded  by  enemies.  I  don't  even 
know  which  side " 

He  bit  the  sentence,  but  Anne  finished  it  for  him. 

" 1  am  on." 

"Because  you're  not  being  open  with  me." 

"Neither  are  you  being  honest.  You  do  know,  but  you 
want  to  force  me  to  say." 

Si 


52  THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

Anne's  lip  trembled  and  Roger  looked  quickly  away.  In 
this,  their  first  misunderstanding,  Roger  wanted  no  emotional 
element  to  enter. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  do.  Your  people  don't  approve  of  me. 
You've  always  known  it  and  that's  why  you  didn't  tell  them. 
Why  did  you  pretend  it  was  any  other?  I  wouldn't  have 
minded  the  truth." 

"No,  because  you  would  scarcely  recognize  their  existence 
as  human  beings.  They  are  of  the  'spiritual  bourgeoisie.' 
They  are  of  the  great,  spiritual  middle  class  you  despise  so 
much." 

Roger  flushed.    Anne  went  on: 

"But  they  are  my  people.  I  live  with  them.  I  don't  share 
their  standards.  My  brain  despises  their  outlook  on  life.  I 
can't  help  knowing  what  their  reactions  will  be.  My  father 
is  bigoted  and  selfish  and,  on  the  whole,  rather  mean.  Some- 
times, he  is  jolly  and  kind  and  a  little  more  tolerant,  usually 
when  a  bet  goes  well.  He  is  a  clerk,  a  corporation  clerk,  in 
body  and  soul.  But  he  is  a  victim,  too,  of  the  smallness  of 
his  own  soul,  just  as, much  as  the  men  who  can't  get  work 

are  victims  of  'the  system.'  And  mamma "  Anne  held 

her  voice  steady  by  an  effort,  "I  wouldn't  hurt  mamma  for 
the  world,  or  make  things  more  uncomfortable  for  her.  In 

time "  but  the  tears  welled  over  and  ran  down  Anne's 

cheeks. 

Roger  gripped  her  hand.  "Don't,  Princess,  please  don't.  I 
was  a  brute.  I  do  understand,  better  than  you  think.  But  I 
hate  meeting  you  round  in  parks  and  public  places,  sneaking 
as  if  there  were  something  to  be  ashamed  of.  Last  night,  I 
wanted  to  sit  close  to  you,  in  some  warm,  comfortable  room, 
like  a  human  being." 

Anne's  lips  moved  in  a  warped  smile.  "You  wouldn't  have 
sat  in  a  comfortable  room.  It's  one  of  the  ugliest  rooms  I 
have  ever  seen.  There's  a  crayon  portrait  of  a  brother  papa 
always  hated  and  won't  have  removed,  and  they  would  have 
watched  us  through  hideous  chenille  portieres.  That  is, 
mamma  would;  papa  would  have  pretended  to  read,  in  a  chair 
fixed  so  he  could  see  us  in  the  mantel  glass.  It  would  have 
been  ghastly." 

Roger  smiled,  but  his  fingers  held  Anne's  more  firmly. 
"My  high-strung,  beauty-loving  Princess.  We'll  never  have 
an  ugly  thing  in  the  house,  will  we?" 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  53 

Anne  shook  her  head.  "No.  We'll  have  nothing  in  it  at 
all,  rather  than  that." 

"Oh,  it  won't  be  as  bad  as  that,"  Roger  laughed. 

"I  don't  care,  Roger.     Really  I " 

Two  people  took  the  vacant  places  at  the  same  table,  so, 
in  a  few  moments,  Anne  and  Roger  finished  and  went.  It 
was  another  day  of  sunshine  and  dusty  wind. 

"I  don't  feel  parky,  to-day,  do  you?  Then  let's  walk." 
Anne  turned  north  and  Roger  walked  close  beside  her. 

They  walked  slowly,  Anne  tingling  with  consciousness  of 
Roger's  nearness,  and  of  their  isolation  from  others,  in  a  new 
understanding  that  had  come  to  them.  All  these  hurrying 
strangers  were  the  world,  flowing  around  the  little  island  on 
which  she  and  Roger  stood  alone. 

Block  after  block  they  walked  in  a  silence  rhythmic  with 
shared  dreams  and  hopes  that  seemed  to  throb  in  unison  with 
the  perfect  harmony  of  their  step. 

Roger  spoke  first:  "There  was  another  call  from  Wain- 
wright  this  morning  while  I  was  out  and  he  left  word  for  me 
to  see  him  this  afternoon." 

"I  guess  he  wants  a  decision,"  Anne  said  casually. 

"Yes.    Yes,  that's  it,  no  doubt." 

"Don't  do  anything  you  don't  want  to  do."  Anne's  voice 
was  even,  indifferent  to  the  issue.  Roger  pressed  her  arm. 

"Anne,  you're  a  trump.  The  grandest  little  chum  a  fellow 
ever  had." 

Anne  nodded  valiantly.  "And  some  hiker.  Look  where 
we've  walked  to.  Clear  out  to  the  City  Hall." 

"So  we  have!  It  didn't  seem  but  a  few  blocks,  did  it?" 
Roger  looked  so  bewildered  at  the  sight  of  the  City  Hall  just 
before  him,  that  Anne  laughed. 

"Seeming  is  not  being.  There  it  is  and  I'll  have  to  take 
a  car  right  straight  back." 

She  moved,  but  suddenly  Roger's  hand  held  her  arm  and, 
at  the  strange  look  on  his  face,  Anne's  eyes  grew  serious. 

"Princess,  let's  go  over  and  get  the  license  now.  It  doesn't 
mean  much — but  I  would  iike  to  feel  we'd  gotten  that  far." 

"Why!     Roger!     Now,  this  minute?" 

Roger  nodded.    "Will  you,  dear?" 

Under  his  look,  Anne  colored.  She  tried  to  say  something 
flippant  but  could  not. 

"All  right,"  she  whispered  finally. 


"54          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

They  crossed  the  street  and  went  up  the  steps  into  the 
rather  dirty  corridor,  along  which  fat,  red-faced  politicians 
and  young  clerks  hurried.  In  the  license  office,  a  bored  clerk, 
just  about  to  leave  for  his  delayed  lunch,  rushed  them  through 
the  questions.  Anne  held  up  her  right  hand  and  swore.  Then 
Roger.  The  clerk  scribbled  in  the  answers.  Roger  paid  the 
fee.  They  turned  away,  as  legally  two  as  when  they  had  en- 
tered. 

But  to  Anne,  something  had  happened,  so  that  never  again 
would  she  be  the  Anne  Mitchell  who  had  come  up  the  steps 
only  a  few  moments  before.  All  the  weeks  of  her  hidden 
secret  had  not  made  her  feel  so  irrevocably  Roger's  as  this: 
a  few  stereotyped  questions  gabbled  by  a  bored  clerk,  the 
unimportant  fact  of  her  age  sworn  to  with  ridiculous  solemnity. 
The  personal  quality  of  her  secret  had  been  hers,  even  through 
the  ordeal  with  her  parents,  but  now,  it  was  not  hers  any 
longer.  It  had  been  given  to  the  world.  This  bored,  gum- 
chewing  clerk  had  placarded  her  name  and  Roger's  for  the 
world  to  see.  She  and  Roger  were  now  tagged  and  listed,  in 
orthodox  fashion,  for  the  great  event  of  matrimony.  She 
began  to  tremble. 

"Let's — do  the — rest — now." 

"Anne! "  A  lump  rushed  to  Roger's  throat  and  he  could  say 
no  more.  Then,  hand  in  hand,  like  two  children,  they  crossed 
the  corridor  to  the  judge's  chambers. 

In  ten  minutes  it  was  over,  witnessed  by  a  stenographer 
and  the  janitor  called  in  from  the  hall.  The  judge  made  his 
mechanical  speech  of  congratulation,  which  neither  heard  nor 
waited  for  him  to  finish.  Silent,  they  walked  down  the  stairs 
and  out  into  the  sunny,  dust-filled  wind. 

"What — what  would  you  like  to  do?"  Roger  felt  as  if  he 
had  suddenly  been  left  alone  in  a  strange  situation  with  a 
strange  woman. 

Anne  wanted  to  cry.  "Are — are — you  sorry?"  she  demanded 
almost  angrily. 

"Why,  sweetheart!"  But  the  thing  he  had  just  done  was 
touching  Roger  to  a  seriousness  beyond  his  power  to  treat 
gayly. 

"Only,  we  can't  go  away  very  well  till  to-morrow  and " 

Anne  tried  to  catch  the  words  fluttering  about  her  like  bits 
of  paper  in  the  wind,  but  the  realization  that  she  was  now 
married,  that  all  the  rest  of  her  life  she  would  come  and  go, 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  55 

eat  and  sleep,  share  the  thoughts  of  the  man  beside  her, 
paralyzed  her  power  to  think  or  move.  She  could  not  even 
look  at  Roger. 

"I'm — going — back  to  work,"  she  managed  at  last. 

"You  are  not.    Not  for  a  single  minute." 

The  tone  left  no  alternative.    Anne  thrilled. 

"But  I  can't  leave  them  like  this — without  notice." 

"You're  going  to  do  just  that.  I'll  phone  Wilmot.  It'll 
be  all  right." 

Anne  looked  at  him  with  a  shy  smile.  Roger  pressed  her 
arm. 

"You're  mine  now,  Princess,"  he  whispered.  "And  to-mor- 
row we'll  go  away  into  the  mountains." 

Anne  nodded,  and  then  there  was  nothing  small  and  un- 
important to  say.  They  stood  in  a  self-conscious  silence  that 
had  the  separating  quality  of  space,  until  Anne  broke  it: 

"I— think— I'll  go  home  now." 

"Just  as  you  like,  sweetheart."  The  relief  in  Roger's  tone 
disappointed,  although  Anne  did  not  know  what  she  had  ex- 
pected. An  unending  stream  of  cars  all  going  in  the  wrong 
direction  passed.  They  were  both  glad  of  the  clanging  noise 
and  the  wind  which  made  speech  difficult  and  filled  the  silence 
between  them. 

At  last  the  right  car  came  and  they  hurried  out  into  the 
roadway.  As  Roger  helped  her  in,  he  whispered: 

"Till  to-morrow — little  wife." 

The  crowd  on  the  step  jostled  her  forward,  the  conductor, 
like  a  specialized  machine,  bellowed  his — "Step  forward. 
Fare  please.  Step  forward.  Plenty  of  room  in  the  front  of 
the  car." 

Through  the  jam  on  the  back  platform  Anne  looked  back 
and  glimpsed  Roger,  already  hurrying  away,  holding  to  his  hat. 
A  strange  mingling  of  fear  and  exultation  rushed  over  her. 

"Mrs.  Roger  Barton." 

She  tried  to  think  of  it  calmly,  as  indifferently  as  any  one 
of  the  strangers  in  the  car  would  have  thought  of  it,  but  the 
realization  danced  like  electricity  along  her  nerves. 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour  later,  Roger  accepted  the  position 
of  private  secretary  to  Hilary  Wainwright,  at  fifty  a  week,  the 
work  to  begin  in  two  weeks. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

THE  next  afternoon  while  Anne  packed  her  trunk,  her 
mother  kept  wandering  to  the  door  and  gazing  in  the 
puzzled  excitement  of  a  child  who  encounters  something  pleas- 
ant, but  so  extraordinary  and  unexpected  that  its  delight  is 
lost  in  bewilderment — like  being  confronted  with  a  Christmas 
tree  on  the  Fourth  of  July.  Without  turning  from  her  task, 
Anne  felt  her  come,  stare,  decide  to  say  something  and  go, 
unable  to  express  her  thought. 

At  last  the  trunk  was  packed,  locked  and  corded.  Anne 
rose  and  smiled  at  her  mother,  again  in  the  doorway. 

"By  the  look  on  your  face,  one  would  think  you  had  never 
expected  me  to  marry." 

Hilda  came  in  and  sat  on  the  bed-edge.  "Of  course,  I  did, 
Annie.  I  wouldn't  like  either  of  you  girls  to  be  old  maids. 
Women  have  a  lot  to  put  up  with  either  way,  married  or 
single.  But  you  have  certainly  rushed  right  along.  First 
you  quit  a  good  job,  dash  off  to  a  place  where  there  isn't  a 
man  for  miles  and  come  home  engaged;  don't  tell  a  soul  for 
weeks  and  then  marry  in  the  lunch  hour.  I  feel  all  upside- 
down." 

Anne  patted  her  knee.  "Well,  you'll  get  right  side  up  again 
before  I  come  back  and  then  we'll  have  some  good  times, 
momsy." 

Hilda's  pleasure  at  the  prospect  vanished  almost  instantly. 

"What  papa  will  say,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"Shall  I  write  him  a  note?  I  will,  if  it  will  make  things 
easier.  I  don't  want  to  upset  him  needlessly,  for  your  sake. 
But  he  wouldn't  be  any  better  if  he  had  a  month  to  think 
about  it." 

"I  know.  But  then,  you  must  make  allowances,  Anne.  At 
our  ages  we  can't  shift  round  so  quick  as  you  young  folks,  and 
papa  thinks " 

"I  know  what  papa  thinks.  Let's  not  go  into  that.  But 
I  don't,  and,  as  I  am  the  one  marrying,  papa's  opinion  doesn't 

56 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  57 

matter.  Besides,  you  know,  I  can  get  a  job  any  day.  I  don't 
have  to  sit  at  home  and  be  supported." 

"Now  see  here,  Anne,  you  may  be  a  lot  smarter  than  I 
ever  was,  but  I'm  older  than  you,  and  one  thing  I've  learnt, 
if  nothing  else,  it  doesn't  pay  for  a  woman  to  work  after  she's 
married.  A  man  may  pretend  he  doesn't  want  her  to  and  all 
that,  but  he  gets  used  to  it  mighty  soon  and  takes  it  for 
granted.  And  no  woman  can  do  it — keep  a  home  and  work 
and  have  babies.  Just  wait  till  some  morning  when  you  feel 
sick  and  have  to  go  out  as  usual.  Why,  when  Belle  was  com- 
ing, I  couldn't  lift  up  my  head  till  ten  o'clock.  I " 

Anne  turned  quickly  and  began  putting  some  things  in  a 
handbag.  In  a  few  moments  Hilda  wandered  back  again  from 
her  own  first  confinement  to  Anne's  marriage. 

"And  to  think  you  were  married  yesterday  and  came  home 
here  as  cool  as  you  please.  Now  when  I  was  young,  jf  a 
girl  had  done  a  thing  like  that  it  would  have  been  thought 
wicked,  although  I  don't  know  but  what  it  is  a  good  thing 
for  the  man.  It's  just  as  well  to  keep  them  waiting  as  long 
as  you  can.  Besides,  an  hotel  room,  just  an  ordinary  room 
where  the  man's  been  living  right  along,  seems  kind  of — 
coarse." 

Anne's  flaming  face  bent  lower  over  the  grip.  There  was 
a  short  silence.  Then  Hilda  whispered: 

"Annie — is  there — anything — you  would  like  to  know?" 

Anne  did  not  even  shake  her  head.  She  had  felt  like  this 
once,  strengthless  in  disgust,  when  Belle  had  persisted  in 
showing  her  the  colored  illustration  of  a  diseasje  in  its  worst 
stage.  At  last  she  succeeded  in  turning  to  her  mother. 

"I'm  going  to  phone  for  the  taxi,  now,  mamma,  and  we'll 
have  a  cup  of  tea  before  it  comes." 

"I'll  put  the  kettle  right  on."  Hilda  bustled  away,  relieved. 
For  she  had  always  found  it  a  little  difficult  to  enlighten  Anne 
and  had  a  vague  idea  that  it  would  have  been  easier  if  Anne 
had  been  a  brunette.  Certain  simple  truths  had  a  way  of 
splattering  all  over  Anne's  fairness,  and  making  Hilda  uncom- 
fortable. 

"Oh,  well,  I  dare  say  she  knows  more  than  I  did  at  her 
age;  everything's  different  than  it  used  to  be,  anyhow." 

With  this  large,  comforting  deduction,  Hilda  began  to  make 
the  tea.  They  drank  it  in  a  constrained  effort  on  Anne's  part 
to  keep  the  conversation  general,  and  finished  just  as  the  taxi 


58  THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

driver  rang  the  bell.  The  little  trunk  went  bobbing  down  the 
stairs;  Hilda  took  Anne  in  her  arms  and  they  clung  together, 
not  crying,  but  very  quiet. 

"There,  dear,  I  must  run,  and  you  can  say  I  eloped  and 
phoned  you  afterwards,  or  anything  that  comes  handiest." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  lie  about  it.  It's  done  now.  Be- 
sides, papa's  bark's  a  lot  worse  than  his  bite.  He'll  be  decent 
when  you  get  back." 

Anne  kissed  her  mother  and  ran  quickly  down  the  stairs, 
waved  from  the  door  and  shut  it  behind  her.  As  the  taxi 
drove  off,  she  looked  back,  but  Hilda  was  not  at  the  window. 
Anne's  eyes  clouded. 

"Dear  old  moms.  She  does  annoy  me  sometimes,  but  she 
has  had  a  hard  time.  I'm  going  to  see  that  it's  better  in  the 
future." 

And  then  Anne  forgot  all  about  her  old  home,  and  sat 
nervous  and  very  timid  on  the  edge  of  the  taxi  seat. 

At  dawn,  Roger  and  Anne  went  down  to  the  lake  edge. 
In  the  east,  the  cold,  night  gray  was  melting  in  green  and 
silver  pools.  Not  a  sound.  Not  a  ripple  on  the  surface  of  the 
lake.  Beyond  the  lower  hills,  granite  mountains  rose,  peak 
upon  peak,  to  the  snow-covered  barrier  beyond  which  the 
world  lay.  They  stood  silent,  hand  in  hand,  part  of  the  eternal 
youth  of  the  dew-drenched  earth. 

Behind  the  towering  mountains  were  cities  and  hurrying 
men.  Anne  knew  it  because  they  had  passed  through  them 
the  night  before,  but  it  was  hard  to  remember  and  impossible 
to  visualize.  This  was  the  core  of  the  world,  calm,  absolute 
in  its  perfect  understanding,  untouched  by  hurry  or  man's  con- 
fusion. 

Anne  pressed  closer  to  Roger  and  he  put  his  arm  about 
her. 

The  green  and  silver  pools  brightened  with  the  coming 
light;  a  faint,  crimson  glow,  herald  of  the  day,  spread  its 
warmth  for  the  advance  of  the  sun,  and  then,  suddenly,  a 
great  jolly  sun  looked  over  the  rim  of  the  world  and  laughed 
at  them.  They  laughed  back. 

"The  old  fool  thinks  he's  surprised  us.  As  if  we  didn't 
know  he  was  there  and  going  to  do  exactly  that." 

Anne  made  a  face  at  the  sun,  just  as  the  breakfast  bell  at 
the  ranch  rang  for  the  milkers'  breakfast. 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  59 

Hand  in  hand,  they  turned  from  the  lake.  The  sun  was 
already  well  over  the  mountain  top.  The  herald  had  rolled 
his  crimson  carpet  and  gone.  Day  had  come. 

"I  suppose  a  dewdrop  should  be  meal  enough,  but  I  hope 
it's  at  least  bacon  and  eggs  and  pancakes." 

"With  cereal  and  cream  first,"  Anne  laughed. 

Roger  squeezed  her  hand.  "I'm  awfully  glad,  Mrs.  Barton, 
that  you  suggested  marrying  me." 

"Always  take  my  suggestions.  You'll  find  they  will  always 
be  right,  even  if  I  do  say  so,"  Anne  teased. 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it."  Roger  stopped  and  took  Anne  in  his 
arms.  Tenderness  beyond  passion  was  in  his  hold.  "Princess 
— it's — so  good  to  be  alive  and  love  you." 

Day  after  day,  deeper  and  deeper  in  their  understanding, 
Anne  and  Roger  wandered  in  the  hills.  Icy  streams  tumbled 
roaring  through  granite  gorges,  suddenly  emerged  to  wide 
sunny  meadows,  and  spread  in  flat  stillness.  The  fat,  black 
earth  of  the  lower  mountains  thinned  to  sheer  granite  slopes, 
where  sparse  trees  grew  miraculously  in  tiny  crevices,  their 
roots  hanging  like  ropes  from  the  cliffs. 

They  sat  by  the  lake,  which,  beginning  a  hundred  yards  from 
the  ranch,  stretched  to  the  blue  distance  of  the  hills.  The 
lake  fascinated  Anne.  No  fish  swam  in  it,  no  birds  alighted 
upon  it,  the  wind  seemed  scarcely  to  ruffle  its  terrible  still- 
ness. No  one  drank  of  its  water.  No  one  swam  in  it.  No 
craft  sailed  it.  In  its  own  brackish  depths,  it  hid  the  reason 
of  its  existence.  No  one  knew  how  many  centuries  it  had  lain 
there,  acrid,  wide,  as  indifferent  to  man's  need  as  man  to  its 
uselessness.  "The  lake,"  the  rancher  and  his  wife  spoke  as  if 
it  were  a  person  who  had  committed  some  unmentionable 
crime  and  been  banished  from  human  intercourse  because  of 
it.  There  were  legends  that,  ages  ago,  the  Indians  had  wor- 
shipped a  god  living  far  out  in  its  bitter  depth.  But  now,  they 
were  afraid  of  it.  The  Christian  God  had  stolen  their  god 
and  given  them  fear.  But  the  lake  was  as  indifferent  to  this 
Christ  as  it  had  been  to  their  pagan  deity.  It  needed  neither 
god  nor  man. 

They  talked  and  were  still.    They  were  very  near. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  week,  the  first  sheep-man  came. 
Early  in  the  morning,  Anne  and  Roger  were  waked  by  the 
baaing  of  the  lambs,  a  piercing  wail  of  terror,  as  of  children 
pursued  by  a  malignant  force.  They  went  quickly  to  the 


60          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

window.  Hundreds  of  gray,  dusty  sheep  were  coming  up  the 
road.  Every  now  and  then  they  stopped  to  nibble  the  thick, 
sweet  grass.  But  the  dogs,  at  a  call  from  the  shepherd,  ran 
among  them  and  with  uncanny  knowledge,  drove  them  on. 
Bleating,  they  obeyed.  The  rancher  hurried  out  and  opened 
the  gate.  The  dogs  began  to  maneuver  them  through.  Be- 
hind the  band,  the  shepherd  came,  carrying  a  lamb  in  his 
arms. 

"A  hierarchy  of  authority,"  Roger  said.  "The  shepherd 
directs  the  dogs,  the  dogs  drive  the  sheep." 

At  last  they  were  all  safely  through  and  the  gate  closed. 
In  a  few  moments,  the  bleating  was  over.  The  sheep  were 
contentedly  munching  the  lush  grass. 

"They  are  like  people.  A  moment  ago  and  they  seemed 
really  to  have  some  definite  point  of  view.  They  wanted  to 
do  something.  And  now,  they've  forgotten  what  it  was. 
They'll  eat  the  meadow  flat  and  then  the  dogs  and  the  shepherd 
will  drive  them  on,  and  they'll  rebel  and  yield  and  eat  another 
meadow  flat — and  go  on — and  on." 

Anne  patted  his  hand,  resting  on  her  breast.  Roger  was 
always  seeing  things  so,  analogies  between  animals  and  moun- 
tains and  trees  and  people.  Nothing  was  just  itself  to  Roger, 
but  always  a  picture  of  something  else.  It  made  Anne  very 
tender  and  filled  her  with  the  same  sense  of  deep  protectiveness 
that  a  child's  belief  in  fairies  does;  a  gladness,  touched  faintly 
with  wistful  envy  and  regret  that  faith  must  go. 

As  they  sat  down  to  breakfast  they  realized  a  new  feeling  of 
bustle  and  industry  in  the  air.  The  sheep  had  come.  Soon 
tourists  would  follow.  Automobiles  would  pass,  meals  would 
be  called  for  at  all  hours.  The  rancher  and  his  wife  talked  of 
rooms  to  be  opened,  supplies  brought  up  from  cellars,  bedding 
aired.  Roger  and  Anne  sat  silent,  as  silent  as  the  dark  Indian 
girl  who  served  them. 

The  rancher  ate  quickly  and  went.  In  a  moment  his  wife 
followed.  They  crossed  the  rear  yard  and  disappeared  in  a 
storehouse.  Roger  looked  at  Anne  and  sighed. 

"I  suppose  it's  the  end.  The  place  will  be  all  cluttered  up 
with  people  soon." 

"I  suppose  it  will.     It's  been  perfect,  hasn't  it?" 

Roger's  hand  moved  over  and  took  hers.  "Absolutely  per- 
fect. We " 

A  note  so  clear,  so  sweet,  so  rounded  that  it  seemed  to  be  the 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD          61 

spirit  of  the  earth  slipping  into  sound,  stole  into  the  room. 

"Oh!"  Anne  whispered  and  held  fast  to  Roger's  hand. 

The  Indian  girl  straightened  and  stood  listening.  A  bright- 
ness flashed  over  the  brown  silence  of  her  face  and  vanished 
as  she  moved  noiselessly  to  the  door  and  passed  through. 
Outside,  in  the  sun-filled  meadow,  the  Basque  shepherd  stood 
among  his  sheep,  his  arms  raised,  a  little  wooden  flute  to 
his  lips.  Once  more  he  sounded  the  clear,  sweet  call  and  then, 
at  the  sight  of  the  girl,  the  happiness  of  the  whole  earth  came 
rippling  and  dancing  from  his  flute. 

For  a  moment,  the  girl  remained  motionless  on  the  door- 
step. Then,  without  a  sign  of  recognition,  glided  away  to- 
ward the  dense  high  reeds  of  the  lake  edge.  Still  playing, 
the  Basque  shepherd  moved  after  her  through  the  munching 
sheep.  At  the  edge  of  the  reeds,  the  music  stopped.  He  parted 
them  and  they  closed,  thick  and  blank,  behind  him. 

That  evening,  Roger  and  Anne  took  their  last  walk. 
They  walked  far  along  the  lake,  until  a  chill  little  wind  crept 
out  from  the  canons,  a  jealous  little  wind,  guarding  the  tre- 
mendous silence  of  the  night  from  these  paltry,  human  in- 
truders. 

Roger  and  Anne  turned  back.  The  sheep  were  huddled  a 
dark  mass  in  the  corner  of  the  meadow.  Over  the  embers 
of  a  campfire,  the  Basque  herder  and  two  half-breed  milkers 
were  playing  cards.  Against  the  door  of  her  whitewashed 
shack  the  Indian  girl  leaned,  her  black  hair  in  two  great 
braids  to  her  waist,  facing  toward  the  glow  of  the  dying  fire. 
As  Anne  and  Roger  crossed  the  front  yard,  she  slipped  inside 
and  closed  the  door. 

The  rotation  of  the  days  had  fulfilled  its  promise.  The 
perfect  had  come  to  its  own  end.  Anne  lay  in  Roger's  arms. 

"I  always  felt  there  was  something  perfect  somewhere," 
she  whispered. 

Roger  drew  her  closer  to  him. 

"I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you,"  he  answered  hotly. 
Anne's  arms  closed  about  him.  Through  the  force  sweeping 
him,  almost  to  unconsciousness  of  Anne  as  a  separate  body, 
he  felt  her  lips,  warm,  soft,  as  eager  as  his  own. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

IN  the  next  weeks,  it  seemed  to  Anne  that  the  world  had 
been  recreated  while  she  and  Roger  loved  by  the  lake.  The 
old  world  of  definite  working  hours,  through  which  strangers 
claimed  her  physical  energy  and  brain,  as  deeply  strangers 
one  day  as  the  next;  the  old  family  life  of  repression,  grown 
unconscious  from  habit;  minute  but  never  ceasing  spiritual 
adjustment,  strengthless  rebellions  against  habits  set  in  steel 
bands  before  one  awakened  to  their  cramping  horror,  all  had 
dissolved  in  a  community  of  interest  in  a  larger  and  much, 
simpler  world. 

In  this  world,  men  and  women  tried  to  increase  happi- 
ness. They  worked  with  ideas;  many  ideas  and  many  people 
striving  to  embody  them  in  form.  Often  in  the  mornings, 
after  Anne  had  watched  Roger  vanish  round  the  corner  of  the 
street  far  below,  she  continued  to  stand  on  the  porch  of  the 
little  cottage  they  had  found  on  a  rocky  crag  that  rose  from 
the  grass-grown  cobbles  to  a  view  of  the  bay  and  Tamalpais. 
It  was  like  her  inner  life  here,  high  above  the  confusions  of 
her  mother's  muddled  thinking,  her  father's  petulance,  Belle's 
brutal  experience.  Above  the  confusion  of  The  Niche,  the 
unironed  laundry,  the  unreasoned  bursts  of  Hilda's  extrava- 
gances, the  intrusion  of  uninteresting  gossip.  The  three  white- 
painted  rooms  with  their  sweep  of  bay  and  hills,  close  to  the 
stars  at  night,  walled  from  the  city  below  by  the  spicy  fra- 
grance of  a  tangled  garden,  was  another  world. 

Anne  dreaded  anything  that  might  disturb  its  peace.  No 
discordant  note  must  enter  the  full  day,  when  alone  in  her 
new  home,  she  made  it  beautiful,  or  prepared  for  the  guests 
Roger  like  to  ask  to  dinner;  nor  the  pleasant  evenings  when 
she  and  Roger  read  or  talked  before  the  fire,  or  went  to  the 
many  meetings  included  in  Roger's  duty  as  Wainwright's  sec- 
retary. 

But,  at  the  end  of  two  months,  when  Anne  realized  that  this 
guarding  of  her  new  peace  had  excluded  her  family,  that 
neither  Belle  nor  her  father  had  seen  the  place  at  all,  and  her 

62 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD          63 

mother  only  once,  she  was  ashamed  and  decided  to  ask 
all  three  to  dinner  the  first  night  Belle  could  take  off  and  to 
make  a  little  celebration  of  the  occasion.  On  the  next  Thurs- 
day evening,  when  Roger  was  at  a  conference  with  Hilary 
Wainwright,  Anne  went  especially  to  arrange  the  night. 

"Well!  I  was  just  wishing  you'd  phone  or  something!" 
Hilda  hurried  half-way  down  the  stairs  to  meet  Anne  and 
walked  back  with  her  arm  about  her  daughter's  waist.  "It 
was  kind  of  lonesome  to-night  and  I  was  just  thinking  of 
running  down  to  Mrs.  Welles  for  a  minute,  but  this  is  the 
night  she  goes  to  church  and  it  didn't  seem  worth  while.  I 
am  glad."  Hilda  hugged  her  effusively;  for,  although  Anne 
had  made  it  a  rule  to  go  home  once  a  week,  if  only  for  a  few 
moments  late  in  the  afternoon,  Hilda  greeted  each  visit  with 
such  amazed  admiration  that  Anne  had  been  able  to  include 
it  among  the  many  responsibilities  of  her  new  life. 

For  Hilda  was  now  very  deeply  impressed  with  Roger's 
importance  as  the  private  secretary  of  a  millionaire.  Million- 
aire philanthropists  had  not  existed  in  Hilda's  knowledge  of 
the  social  structure  and  Roger's  close  connection  with  one 
filled  her  with  awe.  The  status  of  Hilary  Wainwright  in  the 
financial  world  had  done  much,  also,  to  reconcile  James.  And 
when,  one  day,  shortly  after  Anne's  marriage,  he  had  chanced 
to  see  Roger  in  earnest  talk  with  the  president  of  the  Coast 
Electric,  James  Mitchell  had  accepted  Roger,  in  no  generous 
apology  to  Anne  for  his  attitude  the  last  night  before  her 
marriage,  but  in  a  thinly  veiled  eagerness  to  know  all  about 
the  schemes  of  the  great  man. 

Anne  despised  herself  for  yielding  to  this  curiosity,  but  it 
was  so  much  pleasanter  when  things  moved  smoothly,  that  she 
catered  just  a  little  to  him.  She  admitted  him,  without  ap- 
parent consciousness  of  his  real  purpose,  to  the  projects  of 
Hilary  Wainwright  for  increasing  the  total  of  human  happi- 
ness. She  threw  off  carelessly  such  phrases  as:  "welding  of 
classes,"  "the  larger  democracy,"  "the  obligations  of  wealth"; 
phrases  which  James  Mitchell  heard  with  satisfaction,  as  he 
might  have  observed  the  social  minutiae  of  a  class  above  him. 
As  working  theories  he  did  not  visualize  them  at  all,  but  it 
gave  him  a  feeling  of  Roger  and  Anne — hence  vaguely  himself 
— moving  in  high  places. 

To-night  he  was  specially  interested,  for  the  papers  were 
full  of  some  scheme  of  Wainwright's  for  getting  sugar  more 


64          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

cheaply  to  the  market  from  his  plantations  in  Hawaii.  In  the 
office,  James  Mitchell  had  spoken  with  authority  upon  the 
subject  that  very  afternoon,  and  had  enjoyed  the  respectful 
attention  of  the  other  clerks. 

He  accepted  the  invitation  with  such  unusual  grace  that 
Anne  was  ashamed  for  him;  but  when,  a  little  later,  as  she 
said  good-by  to  her  mother  in  the  hall  and  Hilda  whispered: 
"It  will  be  a  great  occasion  for  us,  Annie.  I  never  saw 
him  so  delighted,"  Anne  forgave  him.  Her  mother  had  so 
few  pleasures  and  this  mood  of  her  father's  was  almost  as  great 
an  event  as  the  dinner  itself.  "I  don't  believe  he  remembers 
a  word  he  said  that  night,"  Hilda  went  on  in  the  same  con- 
fidential whisper  as  she  went  with  Anne  down  the  stairs. 
"Anyhow  he's  never  said  another  thing  about  objecting  and 
now — everything's  going  to  be  lovely.  I  feel  it  in  my  bones. 
But  three  extra  to  dinner!  I'm  afraid  it  will  make  a  lot  of 
extra  work  for  you." 

"Now,  mamma,  don't  be  silly.  Besides,  you  haven't  the  least 
idea  what  a  fine  cook  I  am." 

"I  don't  doubt  it  a  bit.  Any  one  who  can  get  up  a  dinner 
for  a  millionaire!  Goodness,  I  should  be  scared  to  death." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wainwright's  simple.  Roger  says  his  god  is  sim- 
plicity." But  as  Anne  herself  was  not  quite  sure  how  Roger 
sometimes  meant  this,  she  hurried  over  the  puzzled  stare  in 
her  mother's  eyes.  "Next  Wednesday  at  seven." 

Hilda  sparkled.  She  had  never  eaten  later  than  six  and  the 
fashionable,  if  inconvenient  hour,  clinched  her  belief  in  Roger's 
efficiency. 

"I'll  finish  my  new  waist  for  the  occasion  and  see  that  papa, 
gets  a  good  shave." 

She  went  as  far  as  the  street  corner  with  Anne  and  gave 
her  an  extra  hug. 

"Going  to  dinner  with  my  married  daughter.  Why,  I  feel 
like  a  young  girl  going  to  her  first  dance." 

Anne  kissed  her.  "You  dear  thing,  you're  going  to  eat 
a  lot  of  meals  of  your  daughter's  contriving  only — don't  expect 
too  much  this  first  time.  In  spite  of  my  boasting,  I'm  not 
always  absolutely  sure,  especially  about  salad  dressing  and 
gravy." 

"I'll  take  a  chance."  Hilda  nodded,  her  eyes  so  bright,  that 
Anne  drew  her  quickly  back  and  kissed  her  again. 

"Don't  forget,  seven  sharp." 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD          65 

"Well  be  there  in  cap  and  bells,  never  fear." 
She  stood  on  the  pavement  until  Anne  had  disappeared,  then 
went  smiling  back  to  the  flat.  Hilda  Mitchell  was  indeed 
deeply  grateful  for  her  daughter's  happiness.  In  spite  of  her 
denial  of  the  fear  that  Anne  might  have  been  an  old  maid,  she 
had  never  been  quite  sure  of  Anne's  powers  of  attraction.  Anne 
was  so  "highfalutin',"  what  Belle  called  a  "spiritual  aristocrat"; 
and,  like  most  women  who  refer  to  the  physical  relation  with 
their  husbands  as  "duty,"  Hilda  considered  spinsterhood  a 
disgrace. 

To  Anne's  relief,  by  which  she  measured  to  a  hairline  her 
previous  anxiety,  the  dinner  was  a  success.  If  Roger  made  an 
effort  to  meet  the  Mitchells  on  their  own  ground,  his  tact 
exceeded  Anne's  keen  sensitiveness  to  discover.  He  kept  the 
conversation  at  anecdotal  level,  apparently  because  that  mood 
was  his  own.  James  Mitchell  laughed  as  Anne  had  rarely 
heard  him  laugh,  and  reciprocated  with  uninteresting,  tedious 
reminiscences  of  the  office.  In  her  delight  at  "papa's  mood," 
Hilda  was  sobered  to  quiet  dignity.  Belle  was  a  little  bored, 
as  she  always  was  when  she  did  not  direct  the  conversation, 
but  content,  for  she  had  expected  to  shoulder  the  social  re- 
sponsibility at  this  initial  dinner,  and  she  was  not  in  the  vein. 
She  watched  Roger  and  Anne  and  wondered  whether  they 
were  really  as  united  as  they  seemed.  Belle  had  had  more  ex- 
perience than  even  Hilda  suspected. 

Roger  felt  the  evening  glide  pleasantly  away  and  was  glad 
that  Anne  had  done  this.  The  Mitchells  interested  him  not  at 
all.  He  thought  Hilda  a  vapid  fool,  Belle  pretentious  and 
James  a  nonentity.  They  were  a  perfect  illustration  of  the 
bewildered  and  confused  sheep.  Anne's  birth  among  them 
was  a  miracle.  But  the  miracle  had  happened  and  they  would 
always  be  more  or  less  in  the  background  of  life. 

A  little  after  ten  the  Mitchells  went.  They  kissed  Anne 
and  Anne  returned  their  kisses  while  Roger  tried  not  to  resent 
this  very  natural  act.  They  had  kissed  Anne  and  she  had 
kissed  them  years  before  he  had  known  of  her  existence,  but 
now,  she  was  so  exclusively  his,  her  delicate  fairness  so  fully 
the  outward  expression  of  their  love  and  understanding,  that 
this  intimate  physical  contact  with  the  Mitchells  echoed  a 
discordant  note  in  the  perfect  harmony. 

So  he  forced  himself,  in  rebuke  of  his  jealousy,  to  the  un- 


66          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

necessary  courtesy  of  seeing  them  down  the  long  flight  of 
stairs  with  a  flashlight,  because  the  porchlight  just  missed  a 
weak  spot  below  the  second  landing.  But  he  came  back  three 
steps  at  a  time  to  Anne. 

"Well,  little  hostess,  that  was  some  dinner  you  got  up." 
He  went  about  switching  out  all  the  lights  except  one,  as 
he  always  did  when  people  had  gone.  With  this  dimming  of 
the  light,  he  closed  out  intruding  personalities,  focussed  life 
back  to  the  points  of  himself  and  Anne.  "How  did  I  behave?" 

He  had  then  felt  the  need  to  "behave." 

The  unconsciousness  of  the  confession  chilled  Anne's  joy 
a  little.  It  made  her  feel  a  traitor  to  her  people  and  she  moved 
away  and  stood  looking  thoughtfully  down  into  the  fire.  Her 
mother,  so  stiff  and  subdued  in  the  new  waist,  so  happy  in 
her  happiness;  Belle,  bored,  but  generous  always  in  her  love; 
even  her  father  so  genial  that  she  had  wondered  several  times 
during  dinner  whether,  if  the  conditions  of  his  life  had  been 
different,  he  would  have  been  quite  so  dull  and  gray-souled 
and  selfish.  Each  in  his  own  way  was  a  little  vain  and  proud 
of  the  way  she  now  lived.  To  her  father  and  mother,  at  least, 
she  was  a  very  real  part  of  life;  through  her,  they  touched 
experience  not  their  own.  But  they  were  no  longer  a  needed 
part  of  her  life.  Across  the  chasm  of  the  full  present  and  her 
future  with  Roger,  they  stood  apart  in  the  past,  a  tiny  group, 
a  little  isolated  and  lonely,  even  Belle. 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  Roger  took  her  quickly  in 
his  arms. 

"Why,  Princess,  what  is  it?" 

"Oh,  Roger,  it  is  tragic,  really.  I  felt  it  all  evening,  and 
when  they  followed  you  down  the  stairs  and  I  knew  you 
would  come  back  alone  and  they  would  go  to  that  cold,  dismal 
flat — they  seemed  suddenly  so  cut  off,  so  separate.  They 
were  the  Mitchells  and — and  we  were  the  Bartons — and  it 
hurt." 

"But,  honey  girl,  that's  such  a  natural  thing.  It's  always 
that  way.  How  did  you  expect  to  feel  toward  your  lawful 
husband?"  he  added,  trying  to  force  an  answering  smile  into 
Anne's  eyes.  But  she  only  burrowed  deeper  into  his  shoulder 
and  he  felt  her  body  quivering. 

"It's  awful  the  way  children  grow  up  and  go  away.  Mamma 
hasn't  anything  really  but  me  and  Belle.  She's  gone  on  all 
these  years — kind  of  looking  forward,  feeling  in  the  midst  of 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD          67 

life — oh,  I  can't  get  it  into  words,  but  she  doesn't  seem  to  have 
anything.  She's  always  been  so  cheerful  and  planning  and 
doing  the  best  she  knew  how — and  now — there  doesn't  seem 
to  be  any  reason  for  her  to  keep  it  up." 

Roger  stroked  Anne's  hair  gently.  "I  know,  dear,  but  any 
one  who  hasn't  anything  of  his  very  own  in  life,  has  to  come 
to  that  point.  And  most  people  haven't." 

"But  she  did  have  something  of  her  own.  We  were  her 
own.  She's  lost  it." 

"Nobody  can  be  anybody  else's  own,  not  lastingly  their 
own.  Men  and  women  who  haven't  anything  but  their  chil- 
dren, haven't  really  anything  at  all.  They're  just  vehicles 
for  the  next  generation,  a  kind  of  machine  to  keep  things  run- 
ning. And  what's  the  good  of  keeping  things  running,  unless 
you  make  them  better?" 

Anne  lay  close  to  Roger,  her  nerves  relaxing  under  the  soft 
touch  of  his  fingers. 

"Roger,"  she  whispered  after  a  long  silence,  "don't  you 
ever  want  children?" 

Roger's  stroking  of  her  hair  ceased.  She  looked  up  into  his 
suddenly  grave  eyes.  Already  Anne  was  seeing  life  in  rela- 
tion to  children,  and  he  had  not  thought  of  a  child  at  all. 
It  seemed  very  necessary  to  be  honest  in  his  answer. 

"It's  this  way.  I  do,  if  you  do.  But  there's  so  much  to 
do  in  the  world,  and  there  are  so  many  people  in  it  already, 
that  it  seems  to  me  selfish  just  to  add  to  the  numbers.  There's 
a  lot  of  talk  about  children  being  the  highest  work  of  the 
race  and  all  that,  but  it  seems  to  me  it's  on  the  part  of  people 
who  can't  do  anything  else.  Most  anybody  can  have  chil- 
dren, and  very  few  can  do  anything  else;  but  what's  the 
good  of  perpetuating  a  race  on  and  on  without  time  or  space 
to  grow  in?  As  for  the  comfort  of  children,  the  selfish  clutch- 
ing at  companionship  or  less  lonely  age — well — if  the  children 
are  really  worth  while  as  human  beings,  if  they're  going  to 
add  anything  to  the  sum  of  life,  they  have  to  be  so  far  in  ad- 
vance of  their  parents'  generation — that  you  just  can't  bridge 
the  gap.  And  even  if  they're  not,  but  just  trudge  along  in  the 
old  groove — still  they're  themselves  and  not  you  really. 
They " 

"Don't,"  Anne  cried,  "it  breaks  my  heart." 

Roger  held  her  closer  still  and  began  stroking  her  hair  again. 
But  he  felt,  for  the  first  time,  a  difference  between  himself  and 


68          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

Anne.  Was  this  just  the  difference  between  all  men  and  all 
women?  Or  was  it  a  difference  between  one  viewpoint  and  an- 
other? The  natural  growth  of  life,  the  widening  of  human  out- 
look, the  wrenching  of  any  bonds,  these  were  pain  to  all  the 
Mitchells  in  the  world.  The  sentimental,  clutching  possession 
of  "family"  was  Love  to  them.  Roger  wished  he  knew  exactly 
what  Anne  was  thinking,  drawn  close  to  him,  her  arm  creeping 
up  until  it  circled  his  neck  in  a  clinging  h'old. 

"Roger,  let's  never  grow  apart.  Let's  share  always.  Wait, 
if  one  of  us  has  to,  but  never  go  on  alone.  I — I — couldn't 
bear  it,  Roger,  now." 

"Neither  could  I,  Princess."  Roger  took  Anne's  face  be- 
tween his  hands  and  tried  to  smile  into  her  eyes.  But,  at 
the  cool  firmness  of  her  cheeks  beneath  his  fingers,  the  smile 
burned  to  a  flame  that  scorched  Anne's  eyes;  with  a  little 
sigh  she  closed  them  and  raised  her  lips  to  his. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

IT  was  a  few  weeks  after  the  Mitchell  dinner  that  Roger 
came  back  to  the  office  one  afternoon  to  find  Hilary  Wain- 
wright  pacing  up  and  down  in  a  frank  perplexity  that  he  did 
not  often  permit  himself  to  show;  although,  as  the  months 
had  passed,  Roger  had  come  to  feel  very  keenly  that  Hilary 
Wainwright,  who  never  doubted  his  own  point  of  view  on  a 
business  matter,  was  growing  more  and  more  uncertain  of 
his  former  enthusiasm  for  carrying  out  what  he  always  called 
"the  responsibilities  of  wealth." 

Hilary  Wainwright  had  been  born  to  wealth,  in  a  genera- 
tion that  had  begun  to  question  the  right  of  such  inheritance. 
Roger  had  always  felt  that  Hilary  was  glad  of  this  genera- 
tion, which  permitted  him  to  enjoy  his  wealth,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  by  discussing  his  right  to  it,  admitted  him  to  the 
inner  circle  of  intellectuals  who  doubt  and  lead  civilization. 
He  owned  vast  shipping  interests,  many  sugar  plantations  in 
Hawaii  and  was  often  called  upon  by  other  capitalists  to 
arbitrate  their  difficulties  with  labor.  He  went  to  strike  meet- 
ings in  a  limousine. 

He  lived  in  a  great,  old-fashioned,  inherited  mansion  far 
out  on  Pacific  Avenue  near  the  Presidio,  surrounded  by  lawns 
and  clipped  hedges  and  conservatories.  He  lived  alone,  except 
for  the  servants,  and  entertained  in  downtown  hotels.  Long 
ago  mothers  had  ceased  managing  their  daughters  in  his  direc- 
tion, but  the  upper  social  crust  was  dotted  with  matrons, 
mothers  of  grown  girls,  who  still  had,  in  the  depths  of  their 
hearts,  a  soft  spot  for  this  "idealist."  If  they  had  married 
him,  they  were  sure  he  would  have  understood  them  so  much 
better  than  did  their  husbands.  These  women  contributed 
largely  to  the  charities  and  civic  betterment  schemes  in  which 
Hilary  was  interested,  and  never  refused  committee  work. 

These  schemes  for  the  just  treatment  of  labor  and  the  im- 
provement of  living  conditions  among  Wainwright's  workmen, 
were  Roger's  special  province,  and  he  now  saw  them  as  a  pond 
upon  the  surface  of  which  he  was  paid  to  swim.  Coming  from 

69 


70          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

an  investigation  into  the  justice  of  some  strike,  or  from  tense 
discussion  with  the  leader  of  some  industry,  Roger  felt  like  a 
diver  bringing  back  strange  fauna  and  flora,  after  which  he  had 
not  been  sent.  Hilary  always  listened  attentively,  but  some- 
times he  tapped  his  desk  in  a  gesture  that  recalled  John 
Lowell.  He  had  a  habit  of  saying  "Yes.  Yes,"  in  an  emphatic 
way,  as  if  his  mind  were  a  hammer  tapping  each  nail.  But 
when  Roger  had  finished,  no  completed  structure  ever  rose  from 
Hilary's  agreement. 

"Of  course,  Barton,  I,  personally,  agree  with  you.  There 
is  a  lot  to  be  said  for  the  other  side.  But,  after  all,  present 
society  is  founded  on  wealth,  and  one  can't  disturb  the  founda- 
tions without  jeopardizing  every  one — every  one,"  Hilary 
would  repeat,  unconsciously  warning  Roger  that  he  himself 
might  go  down  in  the  welter,  if  every  Wainwright  suddenly 
put  his  principles  into  operation. 

The  first  time  he  had  explained  this  kindly  to  Roger,  but, 
as  the  weeks  slipped  by,  and  Roger  had  continued  to  make 
the  same  suggestions  for  the  adjustment  of  conditions  which 
Hilary  pretended  were  disturbing  him,  Hilary  had  gradually 
allowed  his  impatience  to  appear. 

"What's  the  good,  Barton,  of  talking  like  that?"  he  had  de- 
manded almost  angrily  one  day,  about  a  week  before  the 
Mitchell  dinner.  "It's  the  way  the  man  who  has  never  had 
wealth  talks,  as  if  it  were  an  excrescence,  something  that  can 
be  cut  away  from  the  possessor  without  injury  to  any  one 
else.  Wealth  is  an  essential  plank  in  the  social  structure  of 
our  day,  the  keystone  in  the  arch.  Redistribute  wealth  sud- 
dently  and  the  whole  thing  will  fall." 

It  had  been  a  tiring  day  full  of  very  clear  deductions  on 
Roger's  part  that  something  was  fundamentally  wrong  with 
the  whole  economic  system.  He  shrugged  impatiently.  "I 
don't  know  but  what  it  might  not  be  a  good  thing  if  it  did — 
only  the  wrong  people  would  probably  be  underneath." 

Sitting  in  the  well-appointed  office  of  his  employer  the  man's 
manicured  nails,  his  ostentatiously  unconventional  soft  shirt 
and  tie  were  as  offensive  as  the  smug  personal  safety  of  his 
theories. 

For  a  moment  Wainwright  had  not  answered.  Then,  with 
marked  repression  and  annoying  calm,  as  if  Roger  were  a 
fractious  child  to  be  excused  because  of  his  usually  good  be- 
havior: 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  71 

"That's  rather  wild  talk,  Barton.  You  can't  knock  out 
the  essential  plank  of  a  structure  and  not  make  things  »vorse  for 
every  one." 

"And  you  can't  expect  Tom  and  Pete  and  Jim  to  get  all 
worked  up  over  the  luxuries  Mr.  Vanderbilt  might  have  to  go 
without  under  a  new  order." 

"Because  the  average  workingman  doesn't  think  clearly. 
His  mind  is  untrained.  He  doesn't  see  beyond  the  food  and 
clothes  of  the  day." 

"No.    The  average  man  doesn't  think — yet." 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  take  many  years."  Hilary  had  reminded 
Roger  of  one  perfunctorily  mourning  the  death  of  a  hated 
relative  whose  passing  was  to  his  financial  advantage. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  Roger  had  said  shortly. 

"Ah — let  us  hope  you're  right." 

In  the  pause  that  followed,  a  feeling  that  Roger  had  always 
had  from  the  very  first  interview  suddenly  crystallized.  The 
man  was  spiritually  smug,  soaked  through  and  through  in  un- 
conscious insincerity. 

Why  had  he  ever  consented  to  work  for  Hilary  Wain- 
wright.  Instantly  Roger  had  pushed  the  question  from  him 
and  never  again  had  he  allowed  it  to  rise  clearly  before  him. 

But  now,  as  he  came  into  the  office  and  for  a  moment  un- 
observed, watched  Wainwright  pacing  slowly  the  length  of 
the  thick,  rich  rug,  the  well-kept  hands  clasped  behind  Ms 
back,  frowning  so  seriously,  Roger  felt  a  positive  repulsion 
of  the  man's  smugness  touch  him,  an  almost  physical  in- 
ability to  go  over  to  his  own  desk  and  seriously  begin  con- 
sideration of  one  of  Hilary's  futile  little  problems. 

At  the  sound  of  the  door  closing,  Wainwright  turned. 

"That  Sabatini  case  has  bobbed  up  again,  Barton,  and  I 
wish  you'd  look  into  it.  All  kinds  of  welfare  committees  are 
pestering  me  about  it  and  your  legal  experience  will  make  a 
report  valuable." 

"He's  that  Sicilian  fisherman  who  burned  down  the  ware- 
house of  the  United  Fish  Company  and  incidentally  almost 
killed  Joe  Morelli?" 

"That's  the  man.  It's  straight  arson  and  attempt  to  murder, 
as  far  as  I  can  see,  but  the  Republicans  and  the  Democrats  are 
fighting  for  the  elections  and  this  thing  has  been  dragged  in. 
The  fishermen  worship  Sabatini.  He  has  power.  Worse,  he 
has  a  wife  and  eight  children.  There  is  no  issue  in  the  Latin 


72          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

Quarter  at  present  to  hang  a  fight  upon  and  so  Sabatini's 
friends  are  using  him.  The  present  district  attorney  is  against 
him,  but — the  present  district  attorney  wants  to  be  reelected. 
Sabatini  speaks  very  little  English,  wears  gold  hoops  in  his 
ears  and  a  red  sash,  and  his  children  are  really  beautiful. 
The  Settlement  is  very  fond  of  the  family  and  a  lot  of  senti- 
mentality is  creeping  into  the  thing,  I'm  afraid.  Could  you 
make  it  to-day?" 

"Certainly.  There's  nothing  special.  I'll  report  back  to- 
night." 

"If  you  could.  I'd  like  a  clear,  logical  report  before  to- 
morrow. I'm  being  pestered  a  good  deal  by  some  people," 
Hilary  smiled  the  smile  that  meant  "women,"  "and  I  want 
to  know  more  and  take  a  stand." 

An  hour  later,  Roger  stood  beside  Angelo  Sabatini  in  his 
prison  cell. 

The  man  sat  on  the  narrow  cot,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his 
face  buried  in  his  grimed  and  broken  hands.  His  broad,  bent 
shoulders,  the  shoulders  of  a  toiler  from  childhood,  were 
hunched  to  the  flat-backed  head,  covered  with  coarse,  curly 
black  hair.  On  the  floor  at  his  feet  lay  a  little  pile  of  torn 
paper,  the  citizenship  papers  of  Angelo  Sabatini.  Roger  stood 
silent,  leaning  against  the  steel  door  of  the  cell.  Outside,  a 
guard  stopped  every  now  and  then  in  the  monotony  of  his 
walking  to  stare. 

"You  deliberately  waited  until  you  knew  that  Joe  Morelli 
was  in  his  office,  then  you  set  fire  to  the  building  and  when 
you  saw  that  Morelli  had  a  chance  to  get  away  you  tried  to 
knife  him?"  Roger  spoke  very  slowly  and  distinctly,  so  that 
Angelo  Sabatini  caught  the  drift. 

He  nodded.  "Morelli — he  no  buy  and  sell  de  feesh — he 
buy  and  sell  de  mens — me  and  Paolo  and  Giacomo — everybody 
— and  de  babies  of  me  and  Paolo  and  Giacomo.  Many  days 
— we  have  no  meat — and  no  shoes — but  Morelli  have  much 
meat  and  de  childrens  fine  shoes.  Ecco."  With  a  gesture  that 
laid  before  Roger  the  primitive  justice  of  survival,  Sabatini 
paused.  "We  work  all  night  on  the  sea.  We  bring  much 
feesh.  Morelli  he  trow  it  all — all — back  into  the  sea.  Much 
feesh — too  cheap.  Ecco." 

Roger  paced  the  short  cell  length  and  came  back  again  to 
the  steel  bars. 

"Did  you  tell  the  judge  all  the  circumstances,  the  meat  and 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  73 

shoes  of  Morelli,  your  own  children,  the  tons  of  wasted  fish?" 

The  small  black  eyes  blinked.  "Che  disc'?  No  caspic' 
good  Inglis.  Too  queer  talk." 

Roger  repeated  slowly.  The  heavy  face  lit  with  a  scorn 
before  which  Roger  was  ashamed.  "Yes.  I  tell.  And  I  show 
dat."  A  grimed  and  hairy  finger  pointed  to  the  pile  of  torn 
papers.  "I  tell  dat  I  come  America  to  get  good  chance  and 
I  no  get.  All  mens  is  de  same  and  Morelli  do  me  bad.  Many 
times  me  and  Paolo  and  Beppo  go  to  Morelli  and  tell:  'Throw 
no  feesh  into  de  sea.  We  must  live.'  Morelli  laugh.  Den 
me  and  Paolo  and  Giacomo  talk  many  nights  in  de  cellar  of 
Beppo.  We  make — I  don  know  in  Inglis — de  leetle  papers 
in  a  hat.  It  tells  me.  Ecco.  I  go." 

"And  you  told  the  judge?" 

"De  seguro,  I  tell.  I  make  swear  on  Libro  Santo  to  say  true 
and  I  tell.  Ecco." 

Roger's  body  sagged  against  the  steel  bars  with  the  hope- 
lessness of  this  man's  case.  He  had  done  this  thing  and  con- 
fessed it.  No  twisting  of  ethics,  no  pointing  of  advantage, 
could  make  him  change  one  comma.  His  code  was  dearer  to 
him  than  all  the  complications  of  the  law  that  might  set  him 
free.  As  long  as  Giuseppe  Morelli  lived  and  threw  the  fish  into 
the  sea,  Angelo  Sabatini  would  try  to  kill  him.  And  Giuseppe 
Morelli  would  continue  to  throw  fish  into  the  sea  and  keep  up 
prices,  as  long  as  society  permitted  him  to  do  it. 

On  the  cot,  Angelo  Sabatini  was  leaning  again  with  his 
face  in  his  hands,  the  tiny  gold  hoop  in  his  right  ear  twinkling 
through  the  black  curls.  He  had  told  his  story  again,  in  spite 
of  his  lawyer's  warnings,  because  Angelo  Sabatini  saw  no  reason 
to  withhold  the  truth.  In  time,  perhaps,  some  one  would  be- 
lieve, understand  that  he  had  done  this  thing  because  he  had 
been  chosen  to  do  it  and  his  children  needed  as  many  shoes  and 
as  much  food  as  the  children  of  Giuseppe  Morelli.  But,  the 
quiet  form  of  Roger,  leaning  against  the  bars,  his  chin  on  his 
breast,  Sabatini  understood.  This  man  was  only  another  with 
the  right  to  ask  him  many  things  and  go  away  and  leave  him. 

Roger  wanted  to  put  his  hand  on  the  bowed  shoulder  and 
say  something.  But  there  was  nothing  to  say.  Tell  him  to 
hope?  Against  the  United  Fish  Company?  To  brace  up? 
Before  twenty,  thirty  years  in  prison  walls?  Angelo  Sabatini, 
who  had  lived  all  his  life  in  the  sun  on  the  sea,  ever  since  as 
a  tiny  boy  in  the  old  country  he  had  gone  out  before  dawn 


74          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

in  his  father's  blue  painted  boat.  Roger  moved  and  the  man 
looked  up.  Already  the  hope  had  gone  from  him.  His  small, 
black  eyes  were  dead  embers  in  the  dull,  brown  face.  He 
looked  at  Roger,  stupid,  dumb,  confused.  In  five  years,  in 
less,  he  would  be  scarcely  human. 

Roger  beckoned  the  turnkey  and  without  another  word, 
went  out.  Angelo  Sabatini  did  not  move.  As  Roger  passed  the 
desk,  a  woman  with  a  baby  in  her  arms  and  a  little  boy  of  ten 
beside  her  was  trying  to  make  the  man  behind  the  desk  under- 
stand. The  little  boy  translated,  in  an  awed  whisper,  what  his 
mother  said.  The  man  behind  the  desk  shook  his  head: 

"Tell  her  not  to  keep  coming  here.  She  can't  see  him  ex- 
cept on  visitors'  day  and  if  she  keeps  up  this  pestering  she 
won't  see  him  then." 

The  child  translated.  The  woman  wrung  her  hands  and 
pleaded.  Under  the  torrent  of  harsh  Sicilian  dialect,  the  man 
behind  the  desk  rose. 

"Get  out!" 

The  child  pulled  his  mother's  skirts  and  they  hurried  away. 

Roger  went  straight  home.  It  was  dusk,  the  wood  fire  was 
lighted,  and  the  dinner  table  spread  before  it.  Anne  came 
quickly  at  the  sound  of  Roger's  key  and  he  kissed  her. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  laughed.  "It's  me,  not  a  wax 
image  in  a  shop." 

Roger  kissed  her  again.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Princess,  but 
I'm  all  wrought  up.  I  never  want  to  have  another  afternoon 
like  this  one." 

While  Anne  put  the  finishing  touches  to  dinner,  Roger  told 
her  of  Angelo  Sabatini.  Anne  made  no  comment  until,  the 
dinner  served,  they  faced  each  other  across  the  little  table. 

"But  he's  scarcely  human  now,"  Roger  repeated.  "A  year 
of  those  granite  walls — and  he'll  be  a  beast  indeed." 

Anne  shivered.  Roger  had  drawn  fHe  man  very  vividly, 
hunched  on  the  cot,  his  thick  neck,  his  round,  flat  head. 

"If  he'd  only  stopped  to  think,"  she  said,  "he  must  have 
seen  that  you  can't  go  round  burning  property  and  murdering 
people." 

"No,  he  wouldn't  have  seen  it.  As  Wainwright  says," 
Roger  spoke  bitterly,  "the  average  working  man's  mind  is  un- 
trained. He  doesn't  think.  He's  too  busy  getting  food  and 
clothes." 

Anne  thought  of  her  father,  his  servile  acceptance  of  rules 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  75 

and  orders.  His  ever-haunting  fear  of  losing  his  job,  of  a 
rainy  day. 

"I  think  Mr.  Wainwright's  right,  don't  you?  The  average 
person  does  not  think." 

"Then  he's  got  to  be  made  to  think,"  Roger  said  with  such 
sudden  vehemence  that  Anne  started.  "It's  not  because  he 
doesn't  want  to  think.  He  hasn't  got  time  to  think.  And  he 
realizes  the  uselessness  of  thinking  when  he  can't  do  anything 
with  his  thoughts." 

"But  everybody  has  time  to  think,  Roger.  You're  always 
talking  about  the  way  machinery  affects  men,  they  just  do 
things  over  and  over  with  their  hands  because  it  gets  mechani- 
cal and  they  don't  have  to  think  about  it.  They  can  think 
while  they're  working,  if  they're  the  thinking  kind." 

"Try  it.  Make  the  same  motion  over  and  over  for  eight 
hours  and  see  how  alive  your  brain  would  be.  Make  it  for  a 
week,  a  month,  all  a  working  life.  You're  dead." 

Anne  looked  thoughtful.  She  liked  discussing  with  Roger 
and  they  usually  agreed.  But  a  note  had  crept  into  Roger's 
line  of  argument  lately,  that  disturbed  her  almost  physically, 
just  as  it  did  to  hear  a  soap-boxer  shrieking  on  the  corner.  It 
always  made  something  inside  her  curl  up  and  retreat,  so  that 
she  could  never  stop  and  listen  to  what  the  man  was  saying. 

She  got  back  again  to  particulars.  "But  he  did  do  it.  He 
burned  a  building  and  tried  to  kill  a  man." 

"Yes,  he  did  it,  just  as  a  machine  that  is  started  by  a 
clever  mechanic  does  the  work  for  which  it  is  made.  It  obeys 
its  law.  Angelo  Sabatini  is  obeying  his  law,  the  law  that 
ground  him  and  his  ancestors  down  until  there  was  only  a 
spark  left — the  spark  that  brought  him  six  thousand  miles — 
to  the  'Land  of  the  Free  and  the  Home  of  the  Brave'.  And 
then  we  tried  to  kill  that  spark  and  Sabatini  kicked  out. 
Why,  it's  this  spark,  this  will  and  courage  to  kick,  that's  the 
only  thing  in  the  man  worth  saving." 

Anne  felt  a  little  frightened.  "But,  dear,  I  know  things 
are  all  wrong  and  ought  to  be  different,  but  they're  not  dif- 
ferent yet.  If  you  do  wrong  you  have  to  pay  the  price." 

Roger  pushed  back  his  almost  untouched  plate  and  began 
walking  up  and  down  the  pretty  room.  "But  that's  just  the 
point.  The  guilty,  the  really  ethically  guilty,  do  not  pay  the 
price.  Angelo  Sabatini  is  a  victim  of  society,  just  as  much 
as  he  would  have  been  the  victim  of  a  beam  falling  on  him. 


76  THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

This  isn't  a  personal  fight  between  one  fisherman  and  another, 
it's  the  whole  social  revolution.  And  that's  what  fools  like 
Wainwright  don't  see  or  pretend  they  don't.  They  patch  and 
sing  hymns  while  they  patch." 

Anne  laid  down  her  dessert  spoon  hastily.  "Roger,"  she 
said  quietly  after  a  silence,  filled  only  by  the  dropping  of  the 
burned  wood  and  Roger's  even  tread  the  length  of  the  room, 
"you're  not  going  to  quarrel  with  Mr.  Wainwright,  are  you?" 

Roger  smiled.  "Hilary  Wainwright  doesn't  quarrel  with  his 
employees.  He  dismisses  them." 

Anne  looked  quickly  away  into  the  fire.  After  a  moment 
she  asked,  almost  indifferently:  "Do  you  think  he  will  dismiss 
you?" 

Roger  shrugged;  then  stopped  and  looked  at  the  little  figure 
turned  toward  the  fire. 

"No,"  he  said  slowly.    "He  won't  dismiss  me — yet." 

Anne  got  up  and  began  to  clear  the  table.  Roger  came  for- 
ward to  help  as  he  always  did,  but  Anne  insisted  he  was 
tired. 

"Besides  you  have  to  make  the  report  to-night.  I  can  do 
these  few  things  quite  well." 

Roger  looked  at  the  clock.  "And  I'd  better  hurry,  too. 
It's  half  past  eight  now." 

Still  he  continued  to  walk  up  and  down  while  Anne  thought- 
fully washed  the  dishes.  She  had  just  finished  when  he  came 
to  kiss  her  good-night. 

"Don't  wait  up,  dear,  I  may  be  late." 

Anne  went  to  the  door  with  him,  then  came  back,  turned  out 
the  lights  and  made  up  the  fire. 

Deep  in  the  easy  chair,  Anne  felt  the  battling  and  struggling 
far  down  under  the  pleasant  surface  of  life.  Rough  men,  like 
Angelo  Sabatini,  were  striking  blindly  up  at  her  peaceful  secur- 
ity. Anne  looked  slowly  around  the  quiet  room,  uncluttered  by 
useless  furniture,  wide,  clean  and  calm.  She  loved  her  living- 
room.  It  was  almost  alive  to  her.  Anne's  lips  trembled. 

"He  takes  things  so  hard,"  she  whispered  to  herself,  "and 
one  person  can't  really  do  anything." 

It  was  after  eleven  when  Roger  came  in.  He  thought  Anne 
was  asleep  and  got  into  bed  quietly.  But  after  a  little  while, 
she  turned  to  him. 

"What's  Mr.  Wainwright  going  to  do,  Roger?" 

"Nothing,"  Roger  said  heavily.     "Nothing  at  all." 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  77, 

Anne  crept  closer  to  him  and  stroked  his  cheek.  "I'm  so 
sorry,  dear." 

Roger  moved  impatiently.  "Don't  do  that,  Anne,  it  fidgets 
me." 

Anne  instantly  withdrew  her  hand.  Roger  reached  for  it 
and  clasped  it  listlessly.  "Excuse  me,  dear,  but  I'm  all  tensed 
up.  He  was  so  damned  judicial  and — and  'just.'  " 


CHAPTER   TEN 

FOR  several  weeks  after  Roger's  outburst,  Anne  sensed  a 
new  element  in  her  life,  as  if  she  had  come  face  to  face 
with  something  hidden  before.  This  element  was  a  quality 
in  Roger  that  changed  the  angle  of  their  relations.  She  felt 
that  she  might  be  suddenly  called  upon  for  calm  judgment, 
a  need  might  arise  for  a  balancing  force  between  them.  The 
foundations  of  her  new  life,  of  the  deep  peace  and  security  she 
had  felt  for  the  last  six  months,  were  not  quite  so  secure  as  she 
had  thought  them.  There  was  something  in  Roger  she  was 
not  quite  sure  of. 

Often  during  the  day,  Anne  stopped  her  housework,  and 
made  conversational  beginnings  calculated  to  lead  to  an  open- 
ing of  this  subject  with  him.  But  when  she  concentrated  her 
uneasiness  in  words,  it  seemed  always  to  gain  more  substance 
than  it  really  had.  Roger  did  not  approve  of  Hilary  Wain- 
wright.  He  never  had,  exactly.  But  Hilary  Wainwright  was 
not  crooked  as  John  Lowell  had  been.  At  worst,  his  methods 
might  be  mistaken.  He  was  trying  to  do  something  worth 
while,  even  if  he  went  more  slowly  and  cautiously  than  Roger's 
enthusiasm  demanded. 

Again  and  again,  Anne  concluded  that  she  was  exaggerating 
the  tension  between  Roger  and  Wainwright,  only  to  have  her 
fear  reach  out  of  the  most  unexpected  situations  and  touch  her 
with  a  small,  cold  finger. 

"I  will  not  start  managing  him.  It  gets  nowhere  and  does 
no  good."  Anne's  logic  always  led  her  to  this  point,  where, 
by  an  extra  effort,  she  usually  succeeded  in  leaving  it  for  the 
time. 

And  then,  two  weeks  before  Christmas,  something  happened 
that  drove  all  other  thoughts  from  Anne's  mind.  She  was 
going  to  have  a  child.  She  knew  it  now  beyond  a  doubt.  The 
vague  fears  and  tenuous  analyses  of  the  last  weeks  vanished. 

"It's  what  mamma  would  call  'my  condition,'  I  suppose." 

The  world  had  changed,  suddenly,  and  Anne's  relation  to  it 
and  to  herself  had  changed.  Everything  seemed  bigger,  wider 

78 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  79 

and  full  of  soft  mystery.  The  universe,  a  great,  shadowy 
stretch  far  beyond  her  or  her  immediate  concerns,  now  cen- 
tered in  herself.  She  was  the  center  of  something  beyond 
ordinary  life,  beyond  any  small,  blind  struggle  of  mistaken 
millions,  almost  beyond  the  law  that  governed  the  daily  com- 
ings and  goings  of  mere  humanity.  No  mystic  ever  felt 
nearer  to  bodies  unseen,  heard  far  voices  more  clearly,  than 
did  Anne  in  the  first  days  of  her  sureness;  when,  her  secret 
guarded  for  the  perfect  moment  of  revelation,  she  sat  hour 
after  hour,  looking  out  across  the  tangled  garden  to  the  Bay,  to 
old  Tamalpais,  quiet,  eternal,  understanding. 

The  Wednesday  before  Christmas  the  weather  turned.  The 
long  period  of  sunshine  was  blotted  by  the  first  rain.  All  day 
it  fell,  soaking  the  garden  and  shutting  Anne  from  the  world 
behind  a  thick,  soft  curtain.  Roger  came  early  that  night,  less 
troubled  than  he  had  seemed  of  late,  and  after  dinner  sat  read- 
ing before  the  fire,  instead  of  staring  into  it  as  he  had  done  so 
often  since  the  Sabatini  case.  She  felt  small  and  happy  and 
understanding,  shut  within  the  warm  peace  of  her  home  by 
the  pouring  rain,  very  near  to  the  man  sitting  so  close  beside 
her.  She  would  tell  him  now.  When  he  closed  his  book  she 
slipped  her  hand  into  his  and  then,  leaving  her  chair,  curled  up 
in  his  lap. 

Roger's  arms  held  her  gently,  and  he  leaned  his  cheek 
against  her  hair.  Anne  waited,  a  little  disappointed  that  he 
did  not  sense  instantly  the  secret  just  behind  her  lips.  Surely 
if  Roger  had  had  anything  so  vital  to  tell  her,  she  would  have 
known  it.  But  he  only  stroked  her  hair  and  now  that  she  was 
listening  with  every  nerve  in  her  for  a  key  to  Roger's  mood, 
she  felt  that  he  was  really  far  away.  He  was  thinking  of 
something  that  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  her,  while 
she  felt  so  strangely,  almost  terribly,  one  with  him.  She  sat 
up. 

"What  is  it,  Princess?"  Roger  drew  his  attention  from 
some  distant  point.  "Aren't  you  comfy?" 

"How  do  you  know  it  was  anything?  You  were  miles 
away." 

"I  guess  I  was.  Not  so  far,  however,  not  farther  than  the 
office." 

Anne  frowned.  "Has  Hilary  Wainwright  come  to  live  per- 
manently in  the  house  with  us?  It  was  really  much  nicer 
when  we  were  alone." 


80  THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

Something  in  Anne's  tone  made  Roger  look  at  her  intently. 
He  had  come  as  near  having  a  quarrel  with  Hilary  Wainwright 
that  afternoon  as  he  could  come,  and  still  keep  the  secretary- 
ship. He  had  intended  to  laugh  off  his  seriousness  and  to  say 
nothing  until  he  was  surer  of  himself,  but,  at  the  look  in  Anne's 
eyes,  he  changed  his  mind: 

"Anne,  the  man's  false.  I  don't  believe  he  really  believes  a 
thing  he  says.  It's  a  pose,  as  much  of  a  pose  as  those  silly 
soft  shirts  he  wears  and  those  ready-made  clothes.  He  thinks 
it  brings  him  nearer  to  'The  People.'  He — 

But  Anne  did  not  hear  beyond  the  first  sentence.  Roger 
stood  before  her,  defying  John  Lowell,  giving  up  the  law.  She 
rose  slowly  from  his  knees  and  said  quietly: 

"Let's  not  talk  about  that  to-night.  Roger, — we're  going  to 
have  a  baby." 

It  seemed  to  Anne  an  hour  that  they  stood  staring  at  each 
other  while  she  saw  understanding  dawn  slowly  in  Roger's 
eyes.  Understanding,  and  then  such  a  blank  look  of  helpless- 
ness, that  Anne  felt  the  fears  of  the  last  weeks  form  visibly 
before  her  and  swarm  down,  almost  suffocating  her. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  whispered. 

Tears  ran  down  Anne's  cheeks. 

Roger  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes  and  reached  to  her, 
but  Anne  stepped  back. 

"You — don't — want — it,"  she  whispered  fiercely,  "but  I  do. 
I  don't  care  how  many  people  there  are  already.  I  want  my 
baby.  I "  She  was  almost  hysterical  now. 

Roger  took  her  firmly  in  his  arms. 

"Of  course  I  want  it,  too,  Anne.    There,  dear,  there." 

Just  as  if  she  were  a  child,  crying  for  a  toy,  instead  of  a 
woman  telling  the  father  of  her  child  the  most  wonderful  news 
in  the  world! 

Anne  lay  close,  afraid  to  move  away,  to  make  concrete  to 
herself  her  own  hurt  and  anger  and  separateness  from  Roger. 
He  had  not  wanted  it.  His  first  reaction  had  not  been  joy,  but 
fear.  Fear  of  what?  Over-burdening  the  world  with  one 
small  baby  more?  Or  fear  for  himself,  the  new  weight  of 
responsibility? 

"Please,  dear,  won't  you  believe  me?  I  am  glad.  But  it 
came  so  suddenly.  Why " 

It  was  Roger  now  who  was  suddenly  afraid  to  voice  his 
question.  Why  had  Anne  chosen  that  moment  to  tell  him? 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  81 

Had  she  thrown  the  thing  at  him,  a  grapple  to  hold  him  fast 
in  safe  acceptance  of  Hilary  Wainwright's  insincerity?  Roger 
pushed  the  thought  aside. 

"This  is  not  the  usual  way  of  whispering  the  'sweet  secret,' 
is  it,  dear?"  He  turned  Anne's  face  up  and  smiled  into  her 
eyes,  wet  and  hurt.  "Whisper  it  now,  Princess,"  and  he  bent 
his  head. 

But  Anne  could  not  smile.  It  would  take  all  her  strength 
and  courage  to  forget — and  forgive — that  first  blank,  helpless 
bewilderment  in  Roger's  eyes.  He  might  be  glad — he  had  said 
he  was,  but  he  was  glad  for  her  gladness.  He  had  none  for 
the  baby  itself.  He  was  cheating  the  baby  of  its  full  meed  of 
welcome,  accepting  gracefully  now  for  his  own  peace  and  com- 
fort, something  he  could  not  escape.  And  she  had  hoarded  her 
secret.  She  had  even  thought  of  saving  it  to  Christmas  day! 
Of  giving  Roger  this,  the  biggest  present  in  her  power,  early  in 
the  dawn  when  they  always  waked.  She  had  seen  it  so  clearly, 
herself  creeping  close  to  Roger.  Then  the  rain  had  come,  wall- 
ing them  in  together,  and  Roger  had  seemed  nearer  than  he  had 
for  weeks  and  the  depth  of  her  own  happiness  had  forced  the 
secret  from  her.  And  Roger  had  said : 

"Good  Lord!" 

Anne  moved  away  to  physical  freedom.  In  this  spiritual 
isolation  she  did  not  want  Roger's  arms  about  her,  nor  to  have 
him  touch  her  in  any  way.  Roger  straightened  at  Anne's 
movement  and  they  stood,  one  on  each  side  of  the  fireplace, 
outwardly  two  people  very  near  in  the  intimacy  of  the  low  fire 
and  shadowed  lights,  inwardly  far  apart. 

Why  had  Anne  told  him,  at  just  this  moment?  Why  had 
she  done  it?  Had  she  felt  him  slipping  over  the  edge  of  Hilary 
Wainwright's  insincerity,  out  from  these  months  of  his  own 
uncertainty,  into  spiritual  freedom,  and  thrown  the  silken 
lariat  of  her  dependence  over  him,  drawn  him  back  to  the 
safety  of  'a  job'? 

Without  turning,  Roger  felt  Anne  standing  small,  almost 
prim,  by  the  fireplace,  distrusting  him,  clinging  fast  to  her 
safety,  as  James  Mitchell  clung  to  his  little  job.  Afraid  to 
dare,  clutching  comfort  at  any  price.  Perhaps  she  had  deliber- 
ately decided  this  thing  should  be.  She  so  often  understood  his 
unuttered  thoughts,  clarified  his  reactions  before  they  had 
emerged  clearly  to  himself  from  their  first  chaos  of  emotion  and 
enthusiasm.  If  Anne  had  done  this,  feeling  the  safety  of  their 


82  THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

present  comfort  slipping!  But,  when  he  turned  to  her — she 
was  so  silvery  fair,  shame  of  his  own  thought  rushed  over  him. 
Against  the  reluctance  he  felt  in  her,  he  drew  her  to  him  again. 
And  Anne,  in  her  desperate  need  to  believe,  came  back.  He 
kissed  her  and  smiled  into  her  eyes,  and  this  time,  Anne  smiled 
too.  But  she  was  glad  that  Roger  did  not  insist  again  that  she 
whisper  "the  sweet  secret! "  She  did  not  want  to  talk  of  it  until 
this  mood  was  dead  in  the  past.  After  a  long  silence,  she 
looked  up. 

"Mamma  phoned  to-day.  She  wants  us  to  go  there  for 
Christmas." 

Their  first  Christmas  to  be  spent  with  the  Mitchells! 

"It's  going  to  be  the  first  real  Christmas  party  mamma  has 
ever  had,"  Anne  went  on,  "and  she's  as  excited  as  a  child.  Dr. 
Stetson  is  back  from  the  East,  more  successful  and  famous 
than  ever  and  he's  asked  Belle  to  go  out  twice  in  three  weeks. 
He's  coming,  and  I  believe  moms  has  some  kind  of  idea  that 
when  he  sees  how  successful  matrimony  can  be,  he  will  be 
moved  to  go  and  do  likewise." 

Roger  tried  to  smile,  but  none  of  Mrs.  Mitchell's  ideas  ever 
amused  him.  This  was  so  exactly  the  kind  of  crude  thing  she 
would  do.  But  he  had  hurt  Anne  too  much  to-night  to  do 
anything  but  pretend  genuine  pleasure. 

"We'll  do  our  best  to  help  the  good  cause  along.  Shall  I  hold 
your  hand  and  murmur  sweet  nothings?  Come  on,  let's  prac- 
tice." 

"Don't  be  silly.  But  I  do  wish  Belle  would  marry  him." 
Anne  spoke  in  such  a  matronly  tone  that  Roger  laughed.  "You 
needn't  laugh.  Belle's  awfully  independent  and  all  that,  but 
she'd  make  a  corking  wife  for  some  man.  And  this  Dr.  Stet- 
son does  seem  more  persistent  than  most.  She  usually  fright- 
ens them  off.  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  bit  if  something  doesn't 
come  of  it."  Anne  looked  oddly  like  Hilda  for  a  moment. 

"Well,  you  can  coach  me  up,  or  we'll  arrange  a  code  to 
entangle  the  gentleman  in  domestic  felicity.  I'll  do  whatever 
you  tell  me." 

"Then  it's  sure  to  be  a  success.  But,  Roger,  I  do  want  this 
to  be  a  nice  dinner.  It's  really  the  first  effort  mamma  has 
ever  been  able  to  make  at  a  jolly  Christmas.  And  she  would 
so  have  loved  trees  and  Santa  Clauses  and  all  the  regulation 
fixings.  Only  they  cost  so  much,  and  it  never  seemed  worth 
while,  because  it  would  have  taken  all  the  money — even  if  she 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  83 

could  have  scraped  it  together — just  for  the  machinery  and 
there  would  have  been  no  party." 

Roger's  own  childhood  had  not  been  very  full  of  treats,  but 
at  the  picture  of  little  Anne  deprived  of  the  usual  Christmas, 
Roger's  heart  melted. 

"You  sweet  baby,  you.  Ours  will  have  a  tree  the  very  first 
year." 

Anne  nestled  to  him.    "Oh,  Roger,  he  will  be  cute,  won't  he?" 

"He?" 

"Of  course.    It's  got  to  be  a  boy." 

"I  rather  hope  so  myself,  although  I  should  never  dare  to 
prophesy  so  vehemently.  But  I  daresay  you  are  right.  What's 
his  name?  No  doubt  that  detail's  settled,  too." 

"It  certainly  is.  He  is  Roger  Mitchell  Barton.  How  do  you 
like  it?" 

"Great,"  Roger  said  very  quickly. 

But  after  he  and  Anne  were  in  bed,  and  he  had  held  Anne 
and  assured  her  of  his  own  free  will  that  he  was  glad,  and  Anne 
was  sleeping  with  his  arms  about  her,  Roger  whispered  to 
himself: 

"Roger  MITCHELL  Barton!" 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

AFTER  days  of  tentative  discussion,  Hilary  Wainwright 
decided  on  Christmas  Eve  to  have  a  Christmas  tree  at 
his  office  for  the  children  of  the  striking  stevedores  who  loaded 
his  sugar  fleet.  When  he  announced  the  decision  Roger  almost 
flatly  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  it. 
.  "The  children  really  should  not  be  made  to  pay  for  their 
fathers'  obstinacy,"  Hilary  said,  and  recalled  to  Roger  the 
sanctimonious  aunt  who  had  brought  him  up,  trying  to  force  a 
cookie  on  him  after  she  had  unjustly  spanked  him. 

"Why  not  settle  the  strike?"  he  suggested,  without  looking 
at  Hilary.  "The  men  are  only  asking  ten  cents  an  hour  more, 
and  the  right  to  organize." 

He  felt  Hilary's  lips  compress,  exactly  like  that  aunt's,  and 
wanted  to  laugh,  although  he  was  angry  and  disgusted. 

"The  matter  is  being  arbitrated,  and,  in  the  meantime, 
Christmas  is  here.  I  don't  like  to  think  of  children  unmerry 
on  Christmas  day." 

"It  would  be  uncomfortable,"  Roger  said  in  a  tone  that 
made  Hilary  glance  at  him  with  the  look  of  a  financier  consid- 
ering an  uncertain  investment.  But,  whatever  Hilary  Wain- 
wright's  reaction  to  Roger's  tone,  he  dismissed  it  and  said 
pleasantly: 

"I  guess  we'll  have  to  deliver  the  invitations  personally. 
There's  not  enough  time  for  notes.  Could  you  take  half?  I 
have  the  names  and  addresses.  They  all  live  rather  close 
together." 

For  a  moment  Roger  hesitated.    Then  he  agreed. 

"I  can  probably  cover  the  lot.    They  all  live  in  one  section." 

Hilary  nodded.    "That  would  be  great,  if  you  can." 

Years  afterwards,  when  Roger  recalled  the  thing  that  had 
made  him  most  ashamed  of  himself  before  men,  it  was  this 
house-to-house  canvass  of  Hilary  Wainwright's  stevedores. 

They  all  lived  in  mean,  dilapidated  buildings,  down  close  to 
the  great  wharves,  on  narrow  side-streets,  never  free  from  the 

84 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  85 

smell  of  tar  and  bilge  water  and  refuse.  The  men  were  mostly 
physical  giants,  with  badly  shaped  heads,  small,  close-set  eyes, 
and  brutal  mouths.  The  women  were  worn  and  dull,  although 
here  and  there,  among  those  with  fewer  children,  faint  traces 
of  an  anemic,  youthful  prettiness  were  fading  to  shrewish 
angles  and  deep  lines  about  the  pale  lips.  The  children  were 
dirty  and  sharp-eyed,  with  the  shifting  look  and  the  quick, 
darting  movements  of  children  who  live  in  the  streets,  dodging 
policemen  and  irate  parents  and  passing  trucks. 

The  men  glared  sullenly  at  Roger,  and,  for  the  most  part, 
made  no  comment.  Some  of  the  women  reviled  Hilary  Wain- 
wright  in  gutter  speech ;  some  were  confused ;  none  were  grate- 
ful. But  in  the  end,  they  all  accepted.  If  the  "kids"  did  not 
go  to  this  tree,  they  would  have  none.  The  kids  would  like  it. 

On  Christmas  morning  Anne  went  to  the  office  and  helped 
with  the  tree.  It  was  the  finest  that  Hilary  could  find  and 
weighted  under  innumerable,  if  cheap,  presents,  and  bags  of 
candy  and  lights.  It  was  finished  a  little  before  twelve,  and 
the  clerks  and  clerks'  wives  who  had  helped  stood  back  and 
admired  it. 

"It's  a  lot  better  than  my  children  are  going  to  have,"  one 
woman  whispered  to  Anne. 

"It  really  is  pretty,  isn't  it,  Roger?"  Anne  had  enjoyed 
hanging  the  thick,  silver  tinsel  and  concealing  the  colored 
electric  globes  in  the  most  effective  places. 

"Yes.  It's  pretty."  Roger  had  made  up  his  mind  to  see 
the  thing  through  decently,  but  it  was  difficult. 

The  lights  were  switched  on  for  a  trial  view;  every  one  ex- 
claimed "O-h,"  and,  after  other  appropriate  remarks  of 
appreciation  for  the  beauty  of  the  tree,  and  Hilary's  generos- 
ity, left.  Anne  came  close  to  Roger. 

"Next  year,"  she  whispered,  "we're  going  to  have  one 
exactly  like  this,  only  a  teeny,  weeny  one,  aren't  we?" 

Roger  did  not  answer,  but  as  Hilary  called  to  him  just  then, 
Anne  did  not  notice.  In  a  moment  Roger  returned. 

"He  wants  me  to  come  back  after  lunch  and  start  things 
going.  His  sister  can't  get  here  until  half  past  three  and  the 
tree's  scheduled  for  three." 

"Half  past  three!"  The  Mitchell  dinner  was  to  be  at  four, 
to  give  Belle  time  to  get  back  to  her  case  at  seven.  Roger 
could  not  possibly  be  punctual  and  James  Mitchell  hated  a 
meal  to  be  delayed.  But  Roger  could  not  refuse  Hilary. 


86  THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

"It's  one  now.  There's  hardly  time  to  go  home  for  lunch  and 
get  back  here." 

"I  tell  you.  I'll  go  round  the  corner  and  get  a  bite  and 
then  clear  up  a  few  reports  I  didn't  have  time  for  yesterday 
and  stay  right  on  until  she  arrives.  I'll  leave  the  minute  she 
comes." 

"Try  not  to  be  later  than  you  can  help,  dear,  won't  you?" 

"I'll  try.  But  don't  wait  for  me.  I  won't  be  much  behind. 
I'll  come  right  out." 

"All  right.  I  guess  you've  got  to  stay,  but — I  wanted  us  to 
go  together.  Don't  be  any  later  than  you  can  help,"  Anne 
again  warned  Roger  as  he  took  her  to  the  elevator. 

"I  won't."  But  coming  back  to  the  office,  Roger  wished 
that  Miss  Wainwright  would  not  come  at  all.  The  Mitchell 
dinner,  from  a  boring  incident,  had  become  in  the  last  forty- 
eight  hours,  through  Anne's  constant  reference  to  it,  an  ordeal 
not  unlike  the  delivery  of  the  invitations  and  the  tree  itself. 
He  had  wanted  a  quiet  home  dinner,  with  liberty  of  silence 
afterwards,  a  small  space  in  the  cluttered  confusion  of  the 
last  days,  in  which  to  take  careful  stock  of  his  almost  irrepres- 
sible scorn  of  Hilary  Wainwright. 

But  Hilda  Mitchell  had  never  had  a  pleasant  Christmas! 

Roger  frowned  and  tried  to  shrug  off  his  unjust  impatience. 
"I  wish  to  the  Lord  they'd  all  go  and  live  in  China  or  some- 
where. I  suppose  it  will  be  worse  after  the  baby  comes.  Roger 
Mitchell  Barton!"  he  whispered.  "Sabatini  would  be  better." 
But  at  the  impossible  combination  of  Roger  Sabatini  Barton, 
Roger  laughed. 

At  two  the  children  began  to  arrive,  surprisingly  clean  and 
well  dressed;  the  girls  with  bright  hair  ribbons  and  white 
stockings  and  patent  leather  shoes  and  the  boys  with  plas- 
tered hair  and  neat  suits.  A  clerk,  with  no  family  ties,  who 
had  come  from  the  shipping  office  to  help,  made  a  running 
line  of  comment  aside  to  Roger  on  the  extraordinary  and 
warped  viewpoint  of  men  who  could  afford  patent  leather  shoes 
for  their  children,  striking  for  higher  wages. 

"If  they  came  in  the  things  they  wear  at  home  during  the 
week,  you'd  be  afraid  of  germs,"  Roger  exploded. 

The  man  looked  at  him  suspiciously,  but  ceased  his  com- 
ments. 

Anne  waited  for  Roger  until  three  and  then  left  the  house. 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  87 

By  Hilda's  concern  at  seeing  her  alone,  Anne  knew  that  her 
mother  was  not  quite  sure  that  Roger  would  come  at  all. 

"He's  coming,  but  yesterday  Mr.  Wainwright  sprang  a 
Christmas  tree  for  the  children  of  his  striking  stevedores,  and 
his  sister  can't  get  there  to  help  him  entertain  until  after 
three.  The  children  will  begin  coming  long  before  that  and 
he  needed  Roger.  I  would  have  stayed  too  except  that  I  knew 
you  wouldn't  like  us  both  to  be  late." 

"Now,  I  think  that's  mighty  kind  of  Mr.  Wainwright.  Not 
many  rich  people,  men  'specially,  would  have  thought  of  such 
a  thing.  Yes,  dear,  it  would  have  made  it  a  little  awkward  for 
you  both  to  be  late,  but  we'll  wait  a  bit  for  Roger  anyhow." 

"No,  please  don't.  He  won't  be  much  behind  and  he'd 
rather  you  didn't." 

Anne  and  Hilda  were  in  Anne's  old  room  where  she  was 
taking  off  her  things.  In  the  front  room,  Belle  and  Dr.  Stet- 
son were  talking.  Hilda  closed  the  door  softly. 

"I  believe  there  is  something  doing,"  she  whispered  with 
raised  eyebrows  and  quick  nods.  "He's  one  of  those  thin, 
decided-looking  men  and  he's  got  Belle  going.  I  heard  him 
tell  her  not  to  smoke  so  much  and  she  actually  threw  her 
cigarette  away." 

"They  must  be  married." 

"Anne!  No,  they're  not  married.  I  don't  believe  he's 
asked  her  yet,  but  I  hope  he  will.  Belle  says  he's  a  wonder  at 
his  line,  cuts  the  queerest  things  out  of  you,  and  never  makes 
a  cut  for  less  than  a  thousand  dollars." 

"Maybe  he'll  do  it  cheaper  for  the  family.  I  couldn't  afford 
a  pin  prick  at  that  rate." 

"I  hope  you'll  never  need  it.  But  papa  seems  to  like  him. 
Listen.  That's  him  laughing.  I  like  his  voice,  don't 
you?" 

Anne  thought  it  was  cold,  rather  like  one  of  his  wonderful 
knives,  but  she  said  it  sounded  pleasant  and  followed  Hilda 
down  the  hall  to  the  kitchen,  where  she  gave  her  the  black  silk 
underskirt  she  had  brought.  Hilda's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and 
she  touched  the  thick  messaline  lovingly. 

"It's  the  first  real  silk  petticoat  I've  ever  had,  Annie.  It's 
almost  too  nice  to  wear." 

"Now,  mamma,  you  put  it  right  on." 

Hilda  hesitated,  then  dropped  the  torn  gingham  she  was 
wearing,  made  a  face  at  it,  slipped  into  the  new  skirt,  and 


88  THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

waltzed  about  the  kitchen  holding  up  her  dress  skirt  like  a 
ballet  dancer. 

"You're  just  a  girl,  yourself,  mamma.  I  don't  believe  you'll 
ever  grow  up."  Anne  watched  her  mother  with  the  deep  ten- 
derness and  sense  of  protection.  No  piece  of  finery  could  ever 
make  her  as  happy  as  this  black  silk  petticoat  made  her 
mother.  It  was  a  shame  that  she  had  never  been  able  to  have 
pretty  things.  The  old  resentment  against  her  father,  some- 
what allayed  since  her  marriage,  rose  in  Anne,  and  she  was 
glad  that  Dr.  Stetson's  presence  prevented  her  having  to  give 
him  at  that  moment  the  box  of  good  cigars  she  had  brought. 
She  had  always  resented  giving  her  father  presents,  ever  since, 
as  a  little  girl  of  ten,  she  had  discovered  one  Christmas  morn- 
ing, that  the  handkerchiefs  with  "papa's  love"  had  really  come 
from  Hilda's  manipulation  of  the  tissue-wrapped  allotments. 
She  had  succeeded  in  losing  every  one  of  the  handkerchiefs 
before  New  Year,  but  she  had  gone  on  giving  him  gifts  and 
thanking  him  for  his. 

Hilda  had  waltzed  into  the  bedroom,  and  now  returned  with 
the  family's  remembrances  to  Anne  and  Roger,  a  silver  ciga- 
rette case  from  Belle,  a  necktie  from  James  and  Hilda  to  Roger. 
Three  pair  of  silk  stockings  from  Belle  to  Anne,  a  hand- 
embroidered  nightgown  from  Hilda  and  James. 

And  then,  the  matter  of  presents  being  over,  they  both  felt 
a  little  freer.  Hilda  looked  at  the  kitchen  clock.  It  was  five 
minutes  after  four. 

"If  you  don't  think  Roger  would  really  mind,  Anne,  we'll 
begin.  I  want  a  nice,  long  talky  dinner,  and  a  little  evening 
after."  Hilda  gave  her  petticoat  a  last  flirt,  twirled  about  on 
her  toes,  and  began  dishing  up  the  turkey.  "Belle  came  early 
and  made  the  salad,  something  extra  fancy  she's  learned.  The 
plates  are  ready  in  the  pantry,  Anne.  If  you'll  just  carry  them 
in,  then  I'll  introduce  you." 

Anne  carried  the  salad  into  the  dining-room,  catching  a  side 
view  of  Dr.  Stetson  through  the  drawn  portiere.  He  looked  as 
she  imagined  he  would  look  from  his  voice;  slim,  and  exceed- 
ingly well  groomed.  He  was  leaning  back  now  in  the  rocker, 
his  thin,  strong  white  hands  clasped  behind  his  sleek,  dark 
head.  He  was  listening  to  an  animated  anecdote  of  Belle's 
and  smiling.  Anne  thought  he  was  the  most  collected,  self- 
possessed  being  she  had  ever  seen.  He  might  have  removed 
every  nerve  in  his  body  by  one  of  his  own  skillful  operations. 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD          89 

"If  Belle  marries  him,  she'll  toe  the  mark."  Anne  smiled 
and  went  back  to  the  kitchen.  When  the  turkey  and  cran- 
berries and  sprouts  were  dished  and  in  the  hotplate,  Hilda  took 
Anne  into  the  parlor.  Dr.  Stetson  rose  instantly,  gave  her  a 
penetrating  glance  as  if  she  were  a  patient,  dismissed  her  as 
much  less  interesting  than  Belle,  and  they  all  followed  Hilda 
into  the  dining-room  beyond. 

"Why,  where's  Roger?"  Belle  demanded. 

"He'll  be  along  shortly.  Hilary  Wainwright's  giving  a  party, 
a  Christmas  tree  to  some  poor  children,  and  Roger  had  to  help 
get  the  thing  going." 

"If  there  were  a  few  more  Wainwrights  in  this  country  there 
wouldn't  be  any  labor  trouble,"  James  explained,  squinting 
and  pursing  up  his  lips  as  if  he  had  private  information  of  this 
certainty.  Belle  laughed. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  I'm  not  a  philanthropic  millionaire  if  he 
can't  even  take  Christmas  off.  It  must  be  worse  than  nursing 
or  surgery,  don't  you  think  so,  Doctor?" 

"It  must  be  if  it  keeps  any  one  from  a  salad  like  this,"  Dr. 
Stetson  smiled  at  Hilda,  who  was  saved  in  the  nick  of  time  by 
Belle's  look,  from  disclaiming  the  honor. 

Roger's  absence  was  not  further  commented  upon  and  the 
talk  became  general.  Dr.  Stetson  had  traveled  extensively  be- 
fore the  war  in  Europe  and  he  described  people  and  places 
well,  always  picking  out  with  the  unerring  accuracy  of  his 
famous  thousand-dollar  cuts,  the  weak  or  ridiculous  spots  in 
people  and  conditions.  James  Mitchell  scarcely  stopped  smil- 
ing. Belle's  ringing  laugh  interrupted  every  few  moments. 
Anne,  too,  was  interested.  She  felt  the  charm  of  the 
man's  culture  and  experience.  It  would  be  nice  to  travel  and 
meet  interesting  people,  go  to  wonderful  concerts  and  luxuriate 
for  a  little  while  in  pleasant,  easy  places.  To  meet  people  con- 
cerned in  creating  beauty  or  enjoying  it ;  not  only  those  always 
striving  to  divide  it  up.  Perhaps,  some  day,  when  Europe  had 
settled  again  to  a  semblance  of  what  it  had  been  before,  she 
and  Roger  and  Rogie  would  go.  Anne  began  in  imagination 
to  travel. 

A  loud  peal  of  the  doorbell  brought  her  back  from  Rome, 
and  stopped  Dr.  Stetson  in  the  middle  of  a  story. 

Roger  came  up  the  stairs  two  at  a  time,  explaining  to  Hilda 
as  he  came. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  but  I  couldn't  make  it  sooner.     Miss 


9o          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

Wainwright  was  later  even  than  she  expected.  The  train  was 
stalled  or  something." 

"That's  all  right.    We've  only  just  about  begun." 

When  Roger  had  said  he  would  come  straight  on,  Anne  had 
not  thought  of  his  clothes,  and  now,  as  he  followed  Hilda, 
she  saw  that  he  was  in  his  everyday  suit,  rumpled  and  covered 
with  a  fine  powdering  of  dust  from  the  tree.  A  bit  of  wool  and 
a  scrap  of  tinsel  clung  to  his  sleeve.  He  looked  tired.  She 
saw  Dr.  Stetson  size  him  up  and  a  touch  of  annoyance  cloud 
Belle's  eyes.  She  was  annoyed  herself.  Roger  took  the  vacant 
place  and  Hilda  made  a  great  to-do  about  getting  him  salad, 
although  Roger  said,  more  emphatically  than  one  usually 
refuses  a  course  at  a  special  dinner,  that  he  did  not  want  any. 
And  when  it  came,  he  ate  it  as  indifferently  as  if  it  had  been 
plain  lettuce.  Anne  saw  her  mother  watching  him  and  tried 
to  catch  his  eye,  but  Roger's  head  was  bent  and  she  gave  it  up. 
Dr.  Stetson  had  caught  again  the  thread  of  his  interrupted 
story,  but  Anne  heard  little  of  the  rest.  She  wished  that  Roger 
would  not  sit  so,  absorbed  in  his  salad  as  if  he  were  alone  at 
a  lunch  counter. 

The  others,  seeing  that  Roger  was  not  entering  the  talk, 
abandoned  their  pretense  of  eating  slowly  until  he  caught  up 
with  them,  took  their  second  helping  of  turkey,  and  dis- 
regarded him.  As  Hilda  removed  his  salad  plate  and  passed 
him  turkey,  Anne  managed  at  last  to  catch  his  eye.  He  looked 
puzzled,  frowned  slightly,  and  with  a  distinct  effort  banished 
his  thoughts  and  turned  to  the  doctor. 

"It's  the  same  in  all  countries,"  the  .doctor  was  saying, 
"there's  just  a  small  group  of  people  who  really  care  for  what's 
beautiful.  We  hear  a  lot  about  the  artistic  French  and  Ital- 
ians. The  average  Latin — the  ordinary  man — doesn't  respond 
to  beauty,  pure  beauty,  in  itself,  any  more  than  does  the 
average  Saxon.  They  grub  along  with  their  eyes  in  the  dust 
in  exactly  the  same  dull  way." 

"What  is  pure  beauty,  in  itself?"  Roger  demanded,  as  if  he 
were  heckling  a  witness  on  the  stand.  "What  is  impure  beauty, 
or  beauty  out  of  itself?" 

Dr.  Stetson  regarded  him  for  a  moment  with  a  smile  of 
forced  amusement,  as  if  this  were  a  joke,  in  poor  taste,  but  to 
be  condoned  in  a  family  gathering. 

"The  Latin  past,"  he  elaborated,  "was  very  closely  tangled 
up  with  Art,  and,  as  they  have  nothing  to  be  proud  of  now, 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  91 

they  fall  back  a  few  centuries  and  rave  about  their  paintings 
and  marbles,  which  never  did  interest  more  than  a  very  few 
of  them.  And  it's  the  same  thing  with  other  nations  which 
have  not  much  now  to  boast  of.  They  go  back  to  something 
centuries  ago  and  find  comfort  in  it.  You  can't  talk  ten  min- 
utes to  an  educated  Portuguese  before  he's  referring  to  the 
dead  glories  of  the  Portuguese  fleet  and  dragging  in  Vasco  de 
Gama  as  if  he  lived  to-day.  A  Spaniard — at  any  rate  up  until 
the  time  of  the  Spanish-American  War — would  talk  as  if 
Mexico  and  all  South  America  were  still  theirs.  Nations,  like 
people,  the  less  they  have  as  a  whole  to  boast  of  now,  the  more 
they  blind  themselves  with  the  dreams  a  few  choice  souls 
among  them  had  generations  ago." 

"Just  as  we,  in  America,  blind  ourselves  with  the  dream  of 
liberty  and  equality  that  Washington  and  Lincoln  had,"  Roger 
interposed  so  quietly  that  his  inference  was  lost  for  a  moment 
in  the  echo  of  Dr.  Stetson's  sweeping  assertions.  The  doctor 
himself  was  the  first  to  catch  it,  and  turning  to  Roger  with  a 
look  as  if  he  were  diagnosing  an  unexpected  symptom  said,  with 
the  same  smug  assurance  with  which  Hilary  Wainwright  re- 
gretted the  slow  coming  of  the  Average  Man's  ability  to  think: 

"No,  I  don't  think  the  cases  are  parallel.  At  least  I,  per- 
sonally, am  old  fashioned  enough  to  believe  we  have  liberty 
and  equality  for  all." 

"You're  right."  James  Mitchell  threw  out  his  narrow  shoul- 
ders and  glared  at  Roger.  "Liberty  and  equality!  There's 
too  much  of  them  now,  allowing  every  dirty  foreigner  and 
crack-brained  native  to  stir  up  any  fool  that  will  listen.  Let 
me  tell  you,"  and  James  Mitchell  cut  the  heart  of  the  problem 
from  the  air  before  him  with  his  knife,  "if  there  isn't  a  little 
less  'liberty  and  equality'  pretty  soon,  this  country's  going  to 
be  in  the  same  rotten  mess  as  Russia.  The  people  are  half 
asleep.  If  I  didn't  know  that  down  at  bottom,  the  great  mid- 
dle class  of  America  is  really  sane " 

— we  might  get  somewhere,"  Roger  spoke  almost  sadly, 
so  that  Belle  and  Dr.  Stetson  looked  toward  him,  puzzled;  but 
Anne,  her  face  flushing,  looked  down.  "It's  the  great,  sane, 
middle  class  that's  holding  back  liberty — killing  it.  The  rich, 
to  a  certain  extent,  have  it.  The  poor  are  struggling  for  it. 
It's  only  in  the  middle  that  they're  dead,  and  safe.  The  middle 
class.  There  is  no  middle  class,  really.  It  is  the  dividing 
class.  It's  the  blow-neither-hot-nor-cold.  It's  the  lackey- 


92          THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

souled.  It's  the  misfortune  of  any  country  that  has  it,  this 
great,  sane,  safe,  middle  class." 

"From  your  point  of  view,  whatever  that  is,  it  may  be.  Not 
from  mine."  Dr.  Stetson  now  spoke  in  crisp,  sharp  tones; 
like  tiny  glittering  knives  they  seemed  to  pare  the  emotion 
from  Roger's  words.  "The  lackey-souled  are,  on  the  whole,  the 
clean  bodied.  Your  struggling  poor,  battling  for  so-called 
liberty,  are  unfit,  humanly  below  par.  They  can't  function 
efficiently  as  humans  where  they  are,  much  less  direct  matters. 
Perhaps  you  don't  know  the  number  of  mental  defectives  there 
are  in  this  country.  The  draft  records  showed  a  tremendous 
proportion  of  men  with  the  mental  capacity  of  children.  They 
work  at  trades  requiring  little  skill,  they  marry  and  raise  others 
like  themselves.  It's  ridiculous  to  talk  about  increasing  the 
liberty  of  these  people.  It  ought  to  be  restricted,  anyhow  re- 
directed. At  the  other  end  of  the  scale,  we  have,  of  course,  the 
effect  of  over-license,  but,  it  may  surprise  you  to  know  that 
in  school  tests  taken  through  all  classes,  it  was  the  children  of 
the  rich  who,  on  the  whole,  averaged  highest." 

"It  doesn't  surprise  me  at  all,"  Roger  said  quietly,  while 
Hilda  fidgeted  and  made  little  clucking  noises,  as  if  trying  to 
swallow  the  too  large  portions  of  mental  food  offered  by  Dr. 
Stetson.  "It's  exactly  what  I  would  expect  under  the  present 
system." 

"Which  system  is  the  result  of  these  conditions,  not  the  other 
way  round.  The  upper  class,  using  it  in  a  broad  sense  as  the 
directors  of  the  world,  are  there  because  they  are  most  fit." 

"Exactly,"  James  Mitchell  interpolated  like  a  stinging  wasp. 
"Look  at  the  directors  of  any  corporation,  quiet,  clean,  sharp- 
eyed  men.  Look  at  the  soap-boxers,  the  I.  W.  W.'s,  the  union 
organizers — all  shifty-looking,  as  if  they'd  never  had  enough 
baths  or  enough  to  eat." 

"Maybe  they  haven't,"  Roger  said  slowly,  while  Anne's  face 
flamed  and  with  difficulty  she  kept  back  the  tears. 

Why  did  Roger  persist?  What  did  it  matter  anyhow  who 
was  right  or  who  wrong,  at  this  first  real  Christmas  of  her 
mother's? 

"Perhaps  they  haven't,"  Dr.  Stetson  conceded,  "but  that 
doesn't  alter  the  fact  that,  socially,  they  are  not  fit  to  function 
as  directors.  They  are  mentally  below  par,"  he  repeated  in 
clean,  crisp  finality.  "They  are  to  be  classed  roughly,  to  the 
layman,  in  the  same  general  division  as  idiots." 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  93 

"Idiots ! "    Hilda  murmured  with  a  shiver. 

"Nonsense,  mamma."  Belle's  hand  pushed  away  Hilda's  ex- 
cited, intruding  interest.  "They're  not  idiots.  That's  just  the 
point.  Idiots,  real  ones  that  everybody  recognizes,  get  locked 
up.  These  people — why  you  meet  them  every  day.  You 
wouldn't  know  them,  very  likely.  You " 

"Why,  Belle!  I  certainly  would  know  an  idiot  when  I  see 
one." 

"They're  not  idiots,  not  driveling  idiots,  Mrs.  Mitchell,"  the 
doctor  hastened  to  her  aid;  "they  are — well,  just  the  average 
unskilled  worker,  the  laborer,  the  migratory  worker,  the  sea- 
sonal worker.  Many  stevedores  and  longshoremen,  fruit  pick- 
ers, the  simplest  work  in  machine  shops — an  appalling  percent- 
age of  these  men  aren't  over  ten  or  twelve  years  of  age  really. 
From  these  sub-normals  or  variants,  come  the  criminals. 
Criminology  is  only  just  beginning  to  associate  itself  with  psy- 
chology, but  I  could  tell  you  some  apparent  miracles  worked  in 
prisons  by  small,  minor  operations.  Which  proves,"  he  turned 
now,  including  Roger,  "that  it  is  not  a  question  of  opportunity 
or  will — Nature  isn't  romantic  or  emotional — it's  a  scientific 
question.  Deficiencies,  variations,  do  exist.  Perhaps,  in  time, 
all  this  may  be  correctable,  but  only  by  scientific  methods — 
not  by  talk."  He  allowed  himself  the  last  thrust,  covering  it 
by  a  genial  smile.  "A  clinic  is  enough  to  make  one  doubt  the 
right  of  the  democratic  principle." 

"Not  unless  you  refuse  to  look  below  the  surface.  Nature 
may  be  scientific,  but  she's  not  insane.  She  doesn't  turn  out 
millions  upon  millions  of  human  beings  that  a  few  may  scram- 
ble to  themselves  all  the  beauty  of  the  universe.  I  grant  you 
all  the  mentally  inefficient  you  claim,  but,  what  started  it,  what 
caused  it?  Why?" 

"A  thousand  things,  many  too  intricate,  too  subtle  to  ex- 
plain. And  remember  we  know  very  little  about  it.  The  field 
is  new.  There  are  a  thousand  threads  tangled  in  the  problem, 
pre-natal  influences,  going  back  for  generations,  malnutrition 
of  mothers,  early  environment  of  the  baby,  nervous  stimuli — 
dozens  of  influences.  A  psychopathic  clinic  in  any  of  the  big, 
free  institutions,  a  ward  in  a  baby  hospital,  a  maternity  ward 
— it's  enough  to  make  one  doubt  the  right  of  the  democratic 
principle,"  he  repeated  as  if  he  found  the  phrase  so  exact  he 
needed  no  other. 

Roger  looked  at  him.    "It  would  be  very  hopeless,  if  it  were 


94  THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

true:  I  mean  if  nothing  preventive  could  be  done."  Hilda 
moved  uneasily  and  James  Mitchell  cleared  his  throat.  Anne's 
flaming  face  was  still  lowered.  "But  since,  according  to  science, 
malnutrition,  pre-natal  conditions,  unhealthy  nerve  conditions, 
do  play  a  part,  it  seems  to  me  there  is  a  chance.  As  you  say, 
the  children  of  the  rich,  under  the  best  physical  and  educa- 
tional conditions,  do  average  higher;  if  these  conditions,  or 
even  approximately  these,  were  extended,  it  ought  to  help 
some,  don't  you  think?" 

Dr.  Stetson  saw  where  Roger  was  leading  and  looked  at  him 
coldly.  "Really,  Mr.  Barton,  it's  such  an  intricate  subject, 
and,  on  the  whole,  so  impossible  to  discuss  with  a  layman,  that" 
— he  beamed  round,  his  charming  smile  of  culture  and  advan- 
tage— "I  think  we'd  have  to  give  more  time  to  it,  and  more 
seriousness,  than  I,  at  least,  am  able  to  give  under  these  condi- 
tions." A  gracious  gesture  laid  the  responsibility  for  this  upon 
the  well-cooked  turkey. 

Hilda  got  up  to  remove  the  dishes  and  Anne  rose  quickly  to 
help.  Out  in  the  kitchen,  Hilda  closed  the  door  and  whis- 
pered: 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  Roger?" 

Anne  shrugged.  "Oh,  I  don't  know.  He  simply  can't  take 
those  things  lightly.  He  gets  all  wrought  up  about  the  state 
of  the  world." 

"Do  you  think  he's  dropped  it  now?"  Hilda  said  hurriedly, 
detaining  Anne  as  she  was  about  to  pass  back  to  the  dining- 
room. 

"Yes,"  Anne  said  shortly.    "He  won't  say  any  more." 

"Really,  it's  enough  to  scare  one  to  death,"  Hilda  went  on  in 
her  hurried  whisper,  as  she  slipped  the  mince  pies  from  their 
pans  to  the  serving  plates.  "Idiots  and  criminals  lurking 
round  and  you  can't  tell  them  from  sane  people!  Sometimes 
I  think  Christian  Science  must  be  an  awful  comfort.  Look  at 
Charlotte  Welles,  she  never  gets  all  stewed  up.  She  just  goes 
round  saying — All  is  Love — and  she  doesn't  have  to  bother 
about  fixing  it.  What  with  Dr.  Stetson  saying  you  can  almost 
cut  wickedness  out  of  people,  and  Roger  wanting  to  feed  it 
out  of  them,  and  Charlotte  saying  there  is  none  in  them — one 
doesn't  know  what  to  believe." 

Belle's  laughter  drifted  from  the  dining-room.  Hilda  heaved 
a  sigh  of  real  relief.  "That's  nice.  I  guess  everything'll  be  all 
right  now.  Belle  has  a  lot  of  tact." 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD  9$ 

The  rest  of  the  meal  ^ent  off  pleasantly.  Although  Roger 
made  no  definite  contribution,  he  no  longer  sat  frowning  and 
crumbling  his  bread.  It  was  after  six  when  they  rose  from 
the  table,  and,  according  to  a  prearranged  scheme  of  Belle's, 
had  black  coffee  in  the  other  room  before  the  gas  log.  But 
Anne  saw  that  Belle  did  not  quite  trust  Roger  yet,  because  she 
so  evidently  kept  the  conversation  in  her  own  hands. 

"It's  a  shame,"  Anne  decided.  "He  couldn't  change  them, 
and  this  is  the  first  time  Belle  has  ever  brought  any  of  her 
friends  home  and  had  things  pleasant." 

As  soon  after  the  black  coffee  as  she  could,  she  let  her  eye 
catch  Roger's  and,  at  the  question  in  his,  nodded  faintly.  The 
others  would  have  a  better  time  when  he  had  gone,  and  they 
would  all  be  going  soon  anyhow.  She  slipped  out  as  Hilda 
took  the  empty  coffee  things. 

"I  think  we'll  have  to  go  now,  mamma.  Roger  has  had  a 
tiring  day  and  there  may  be  reports  to  do  yet.  This  is  Mr. 
Wainwright's  busy  season." 

"Do  you  have  to  go,  dear,  really?"  Hilda  could  not  keep 
every  atom  of  relief  out  of  her  voice,  for  neither  was  she  sure 
of  Roger.  Perhaps  James  would  let  the  dinner  pass,  but  not  if 
Roger  annoyed  him  any  more. 

"I  think  so.  It  was  a  lovely  dinner.  I'd  like  to  help  you 
with  the  dishes,  but  I  suppose  you'll  leave  them  till  morning." 

Hilda  laughed.  "I'm  not  going  to  do  them  at  all.  Mrs. 
Welles'  Jap  schoolboy's  coming  at  half  past  eight  for  an  hour." 

"Good  for  you!" 

"It's  papa's  present,"  Hilda  said  proudly.  "Really,  Anne, 
papa's  changing  quite  a  bit." 

Anne  put  her  arms  about  her  mother.  "You  dear,  patient 
thing.  I  wish  I  were  more  like  you." 

"Go  on,  you  flatterer.  There's  Roger  coming  to  look  you 
up." 

"They're  going  to  play  bridge  for  a  while.  Do  you  want  to 
play,  dear?"  he  asked. 

"No.    We'll  just  slip  out  the  back  way.    They  won't  notice." 

"Why,  Anne,  that's  awfully  rude.    Of  course  they'll  notice." 

"Is  it?  Anne  asked  coldly,  as  Hilda  disappeared  for  a  mo- 
ment into  the  pantry.  "Well,  I  don't  think  it  matters  if  it  is 
now." 

She  got  her  things  quietly  and  joined  Roger  again  in  the 
kitchen.  Hilda  leaned  over  the  porch  railing  and  waved  as 


96  THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

they  disappeared  into  the  covered  tunnel  that  led  to  the  street. 
On  the  sidewalk,  Roger  slipped  his  hand  under  Anne's  arm, 
but  Anne  drew  violently  away. 

"Why,  honey,  what's  the  matter?    Surely  you  don't — 

"Surely  I  do  care  for  common  decency  and  politeness. 
Mamma  got  up  a  lovely  dinner;  every  one  was  having  a  good 
time,  until  you  got  one  of  those  excited  streaks  on.  You  might 
know  they  wouldn't  agree  with  you.  What  sense  was  there  in 
insisting?  Besides,  Dr.  Stetson  is  an  authority  and  you  don't 
know  anything  about  subnormal  psychology  or  criminology." 

Under  the  stream  of  Anne's  anger,  Roger's  nerves  quivered. 
Like  fork  lightning,  fears  cut  across  his  mind,  phrases  of 
Anne's,  moods,  likes  and  dislikes,  resemblances  to  the  Mitchells. 
He  had  been  longing  to  get  away  from  the  house,  now  he 
wanted  to  get  away  from  the  stream  of  Anne's  invective.  But, 
once  started,  Anne  clung  to  her  hurt. 

"Please,  Anne,  quit  it,"  Roger  said  as  they  reached  the 
corner  where  they  had  to  take  the  car.  "I  don't  want  to  hear 
any  more  about  it." 

The  car  was  just  coming  into  sight.  "No,"  Anne  said  hur- 
riedly, "you  never  do,  after  you've  had  your  say." 

Side  by  side,  hurt  and  angry,  they  sat  through  the  long  ride 
home.  But,  as  they  climbed  the  hill,  quiet  at  this  hour,  the 
earth  sweet  with  long  rain,  the  stars  clean  and  shining  from  a 
densely  blue-black  sky,  Roger  took  Anne's  hand. 

"I'm  sorry  I  hurt  you,  dear.    I  really  never  meant  to." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  could  have  helped  meaning  it,"  Anne 
said  coldly,  and  then,  because  she  too  was  afraid  of  this  their 
first  real  disagreement,  pressed  his  fingers  faintly. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

THEY  did  not  mention  the  dinner  again,  but  for  weeks  it 
hung  in  the  background  of  all  Anne's  thought.  The  long 
silences  and  sudden  irritations  of  Roger  she  interpreted  by  it, 
as  well  as  her  own  growing  inability  to  discuss  his  work  with 
him.  All  their  talks  now  were  touched  with  the  same  dislike, 
almost  fear,  she  had  always  had  of  dropping  the  curtain  of 
Hilda's  Niche  behind  her,  and  being  left  alone  in  the  dark 
confusion  of  the  interior. 

Beyond  the  brilliant  light  of  her  own  happiness  in  the  com- 
ing of  the  baby,  the  still  positive  joy  in  her  pretty  home,  there 
was  something  dark,  hidden  and  unclear.  It  was  as  if  Roger 
himself  had  absorbed  some  of  the  dumb  hatred,  the  bitterness 
of  revolt  that  saturated  the  outside  world. 

The  longshore  strike  hung  on;  other  strikes  threatened  in 
sympathy.  The  newspapers  clamored  for  settlement.  Through 
January  and  February,  Roger  was  out  almost  every  evening 
with  Hilary  Wainwright,  attending  useless  efforts  at  adjust- 
ment. From  these  he  returned,  his  anger  throttled  to  consid- 
eration of  Anne's  condition,  a  consideration  so  palpable  that 
Anne  felt  the  foundations  of  her  peace  tremble. 

Finally,  one  night  at  the  beginning  of  March,  when,  after  a 
brief  rest  of  exhaustion,  the  rain  was  again  pouring  hour  after 
hour,  a  mass  of  water  from  sky  to  earth,  Anne  spoke: 

"A  penny,  Roger.  You've  been  staring  into  the  fire  half  an 
hour  by  the  clock.  I  spoke  twice  and  you  never  heard  a 
word." 

Roger  turned  to  her.    "Didn't  I?    I  was  thinking." 

Anne  put  aside  the  tiny  white  nightgown  she  was  hemstitch- 
ing and  drew  her  chair  closer.  "I  should  hope  so.  I'd  hate  to 
think  you  were  just  gazing  blankly.  You're  getting  awfully 
quiet,  Roger." 

"Am  I?  I  suppose  I  am.  There's  so  little  time  to  really 
think  in  the  day.  It's  so  cluttered  up  doing — nothing." 

"I  thought  Mr.  Wainwright  used  to  overwork  you  at  first. 
It's  about  time  he  did  a  little  more  himself."  Anne  watched 

97 


98  THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

Roger's  face,  with  something  of  the  same  tense  interest  with 
which  one  waits  for  a  stage  curtain  to  roll  back. 

"Oh,  he  gives  me  enough  to  do.  It's  not  that.  It's  the  kind 
of  thing." 

"What's  he  want  now?"  Anne  was  going  to  say:  "Another 
Christmas  tree?"  but  the  subject  had  closed  itself  naturally  on 
Christmas  night  and  neither  had  again  referred  to  it. 

"He  wants  to  call  a  meeting  of  the  strike  leaders ;  the  heads 
of  the  other  unions  he's  afraid  are  going  out  in  sympathy — a 
bunch  of  charity  buttinskies,  Rockefeller  Foundation  people 
and  Russell  Sage  investigators,  and — some  of  his  own  stock- 
holders. The  thing's  to  be  a  cross  between  a  directors'  meet- 
ing and  a  church  social.  He's  going  to  have  refreshments 
served — after  a  friendly,  informal  talk,  served  by  his  private 
butler,  brought  down  from  the  house  for  the  occasion!" 

Anne  laughed.  Roger  smiled,  and  then  laughed  with  her. 
"If  it  wasn't  pitiful,  wicked  in  a  way,  it's  so  dense  and  stupid, 
it  would  be  a  scream.  Black  Tom  O'Connell,  and  the  Rev- 
erend Kenneth  Peabody  Smythe — being  buttled  with  expensive 
sandwiches." 

Now  that  he  had  really  started  to  talk  about  it,  Roger  felt 
the  enthusiasm  of  communication  sweep  him.  It  was  nice  to 
talk  again  like  this  to  Anne.  The  habit  had  dropped  out  lately, 
ever  since  the  Christmas  dinner. 

"He's  obsessed  with  the  idea  that  if  he  can  persuade  Capital 
and  Labor  to  eat  a  sandwich  together,  all  will  be  harmony  and 
brotherly  love." 

"The  men  will  swallow  their  claims  with  their  sandwich,  as 
it  were?" 

"Exactly.  And  his  directors  will  swallow  their  just  griev- 
ances at  the  men's  obstinacy,  and  everything  will  be  exactly  as 
it  was  before." 

"Did  you  try  to  dissuade  him?" 

"No.  It  would  do  no  good.  He  cannot  or  will  not  see  the 
thing  as  an  indicator.  To  him,  each  strike  is  a  separate  act  of 
obstinacy,  or  anger,  or  a  monetary  demand  on  the  part  of  the 
men.  He  concedes  some  to  be  just  and  some  unjust,  but  the 
just  ones  are  getting  fewer,  rapidly  fewer.  He  sees  the  whole 
labor  situation  as  a  kind  of  rising  shriek  on  the  part  of  the 
workers,  higher  and  higher,  like  angry  and  perverse  children 
who  have  found  a  way  to  terrify  their  nurses.  He's  looked  the 
shrieking  baby  over  and  can  find  no  pins  in  its  clothing  and 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD          99 

so  he's  going  to  give  it  a  lollypop  and  tell  it  to  be  good.  If  it 
doesn't  obey — he'll  set  it  down  with  a  thump  and  leave  it  to 
itself." 

Under  the  grotesque  figure  of  his  speech,  Anne  felt  Roger's 
anger.  He  now  hated  Hilary  Wainwright  with  a  personal  bit- 
terness Anne  had  not  believed  in  him.  After  a  little,  she  asked 
quietly: 

"When's  this  meeting  coming  off?" 

"To-morrow  night.  The  invitations  went  out  days  ago;  off- 
hand, 'comradely'  notes  to  the  labor  people;  beseeching  little 
appeals  to  the  Russell  Sagers,  et  al.  'to  help  out';  I  didn't  see 
those  to  the  company  directors;  he  managed  them  himself." 

Again  there  was  a  short  silence,  filled  to  Anne  with  cold  little 
puffs  of  anxiety  blowing  from  beyond  the  warm  security  of 
their  pretty  rooms. 

"Can  outsiders  go,  Roger?  There  wouldn't  be  any  real 
objection,  would  there?" 

"Why,  no.    I  don't  see  that  there  would.    Why?" 

"I'd  like  to  go." 

"Really?"  Roger  turned  to  her,  his  eyes  full  of  a  pleased  sur- 
prise that  hurt  Anne  a  little. 

"Of  course  I  would.    It  sounds  interesting." 

"Interesting?  Yes,  it  will  be  interesting  as  a  psychological 
problem — a  kind  of  clinic  for  studying  the  blind  stupidity  of 
Hilary  Wainwright  and  his  kind.  It  may  be  rough,  too.  I 
wouldn't  answer  for  Black  Tom  O'Connell — if  he  comes." 

"I  guess  it  won't  be  so  rough  that  I  can't  stand  it — if  you 
can,"  Anne  added  in  an  emphasis  that  escaped  Roger,  vision- 
ing  again  the  absurd  sandwich  that  was  to  unite  Labor  and 
Capital. 

But  the  next  evening,  as  she  followed  Roger  into  the  already 
well-filled  room,  Anne  forgot  her  personal  interest  in  the  feel 
of  suppressed  antagonism  that  filled  the  very  air.  Almost 
abnormally  sensitive  to  hidden  currents,  as  Anne  passed  down 
the  empty  space  so  clearly  separating  the  two  factions  of  the» 
audience,  she  felt  the  currents  playing  across  her. 

On  the  right,  in  little  knots  and  groups  about  Hilary  Wain- 
wright's  desk,  were  the  directors  and  their  wives,  the  Russell 
Sagers,  et  al.,  a  few  thin,  rather  pale  young  men  and  a  woman 
with  horn-rimmed  glasses,  stringy  hair  and  a  note  book.  On 
the  left,  a  fat  man  with  a  red  face  and  very  black  hair  and 
two  women,  one  scarcely  more  than  a  girl,  with  bobbed  chest- 


ioo        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

nut  curls,  and  great  violet  eyes,  child-like  eyes  above  the  scar- 
let lips  of  a  woman. 

As  Roger  led  to  seats  just  opposite  this  girl,  Anne  noticed 
that  the  girl  looked  at  them,  and  said  something  to  the  woman 
beside  her,  but  the  latter  did  not  answer,  nor  even  turn  to 
them.  She  was  a  squat,  heavily  built  woman,  with  a  swarthy 
skin,  and  densely  black,  living  hair,  without  a  thread  of  gray, 
although  Anne  judged  her  more  than  forty. 

She  gripped  Anne's  attention  and  held  it.  She  was  so  still. 
She  looked  as-  if  she  could  wait  forever  and,  in  the  end,  the 
thing  she  waited  would  come.  She  was  like  the  earth,  silent, 
indifferent  to  all  the  play  of  light  and  shadow  in  life.  She  lived 
for  a  purpose.  Whatever.it  was,  Anne  felt  it  like  a  thick,  brown 
shell  about  her.  Again  the  girl  with  the  bobbed  hair  spoke  to 
her.  This  time  she  frowned  and  shrugged  aside  the  girl's  re- 
marks. It  was  like  the  motion  of  a  tree  disturbing  the  poise  of 
a  bright  insect  lodged  for  a  moment  upon  its  leaves.  The  girl 
laughed  and  the  heavy  woman  lit  a  cigarette.  She  smoked  in 
deep,  violent  draws  that  obscured  her  face  in  a  cloud  of  stinging 
blue  smoke. 

At  the  odor,  a  short,  bald-headed  man  rose  on  the  other  side 
of  the  room  and  opened  a  window.  When  he  came  back  to 
his  chair  the  woman  beside  him  bowed  her  thanks.  She  was  a 
large,  gray-haired  woman,  conspicuous  as  the  one  bright  spot 
amid  the  darkjtailored  suits  of  the  other  women  and  the  busi- 
ness clothes  of^he  men.  Her  amber-colored  tunic,  of  soft  silk, 
blended  into  the" golden  tint  of  her  rounded,  unlined  face.  Her 
skirt  of  golden-brown  broadcloth  toned  in  perfect  har- 
mony with  her  brown  suede  boots.  When,  through  her 
gold  lorgnette,  hung  on  an  amber  chain,  her  brown  eyes  smiled 
their  thanks  to  the^man  for  his  service,  she  seemed  to  come 
down  from  some  height  for  the  special  purpose.  She  was  like 
a  rich,  perfectly-ripened  apricot,  hung  beyond  reach.  Next  to 
her,  on  the  left,  the  black-coated  slimness  of  the  Reverend 
Kenneth  Peabody  Smythe  stood  out  like  an  exclamation  point, 
calling  attention  to  his  presence  in  this  extraordinary  gather- 
ing. 

At  his  desk,  Hilary  Wainwright  kept  glancing  anxiously 
from  the  door  to  the  group  of  men  talking  together  in  the  third 
row.  These  men  were  all  beyond  middle  age,  with  well-brushed 
gray  hair,  white,  well-kept  hands  and  tailored  clothes.  Two  of 
them  were  lean,  sharp-eyed  men,  their  bodies  tightened  like 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         101 

springs,  perfect  mechanisms  for  the  gripping  and  adjusting  of 
any  obstruction  before  them.  The  other  was  shorter,  with  a 
heavy  neck  and  predatory  eyes,  the  cheap  cartoonists'  favorite 
illustration  of  a  capitalist. 

Hilary  Wainwright  was  just  moving  to  join  them,  when 
the  door  opened  and  a  large,  raw-boned  man  in  an  untidy  over- 
coat entered  hurriedly  and,  without  looking  to  the  right  or 
left,  came  straight  to  the  seat  beside  the  bobbed-haired  girl. 
His  boots  left  a  muddy  trail  across  the  rug,  and,  as  he 
shrugged  himself  out  of  his  overcoat  the  ashes  from  his  cigar 
stub  fell  on  the  girl's  lap.  With  a  dainty  flip  of  her  white 
fingers  she  brushed  them  aside,  leaned  close  to  the  man,  and 
whispered.  He  nodded,  and  the  girl  patted  his  knee.  With  a 
tap  of  his  gavel,  Hilary  Wainwright  called  the  meeting  to 
order. 

Under  cover  of  the  preliminary  remarks  on  the  present  situa- 
tion among  the  longshoremen,  Anne  whispered  to  Roger: 

"Who's  that  man?" 

"Black  Tom  O'Connell.    The  idol  of  the  laboring  world." 

"Who's  that  heavy  woman  this  side?" 

"That's  Katya  Orloff,  the  inevitable  Russian  Jew." 

Anne  looked  beyond  her  to  Black  Tom.  He,  like  Katya, 
was  sitting  perfectly  still,  the  unlit  butt  of  the  cigar  hanging 
from  his  lips.  His  long,  thin  face  was  badly  shaven  and  gray- 
ish from  overwork.  His  worn  clothes  hung  loosely  on  his  large 
frame,  bent  and  gnarled  from  a  childhood  of  work  and  the 
passions  which  Anne  felt  were  always  tearing  the  man. 
Again  and  again,  Anne  tried  to  look  away,  to  listen  to  the 
smooth  flow  of  Hilary  Wainwright's  studied  periods,  but  her 
eyes  always  came  back  to  the  still,  slouching  form  next  to  the 
pretty  girl.  Their  physical  proximity  disturbed  her.  She  felt 
an  element  in  the  girl  reaching  to  this  man,  scarred,  untidy, 
old  enough  to  be  her  father.  When  the  girl  for  the  second 
time  laid  her  soft,  white  hand  on  his  knee,  Anne  felt  herself 
flush  and  looked  quickly  away  to  Hilary. 

Whatever  he  had  been  saying,  he  had  now  reached  the  end 
of  the  first  period.  With  a  distinct  bracing  of  his  shoulders, 
and  a  decided  hardening  of  his  lips,  he  went  on: 

"And  so  it  seemed  the  best  thing  for  us  all  to  get  together 
and  talk  the  thing  out  frankly  and  honestly.  The  situation  is 
serious  and  it  concerns  us  all,  every  one  of  us  and  the  whole 
city,"  he  added,  to  impress  the  fact  that  it  was  not  his  peculiar 


102        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

position  as  main  owner  in  the  sugar  fleet,  not  the  financial 
interest  of  the  other  keen  directors,  that  had  brought  them 
there,  but  their  world  interest  in  all  that  touched  humanity. 
"Until  now,  the  strike  has  been  fairly  orderly,  but  it  will  not 
continue  so  much  longer.  The  city,  the  common  people,  can- 
not be  made  to  bear  much  longer  the  brunt  of  curtailed  sugar 
supply,  or  idle  shipping.  The  boats  have  got  to  be  run."  He 
paused.  Anne  felt  Katya  Orloff  move  for  the  first  time,  a 
slight  movement  toward  them.  She  turned  slightly  and  saw 
that  Katya  was  now  looking  with  faint  amusement  at  Roger, 
the  only  one  in  the  room  listening  intently  to  Hilary. 

The  directors,  bored  by  having  to  give  up  their  evening  to 
this  "hare-brained  scheme  of  that  idealist,  Wainwright,"  but 
realizing  the  importance  of  having  every  morning  paper  blazon 
the  fact  that  they  had  met  with  Labor  and  tried  to  reach  a 
sane  compromise,  sat  back  in  noncommittal  placidity.  The 
Reverend  Kenneth  Peabody  Smythe  looked  worried,  and  the 
lady  in  apricot  disgusted.  The  thin  woman  with  the  note- 
book chewed  her  pencil  while  studying  the  severely  plain  and 
expensive  suit  of  the  woman  in  front  of  her.  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  tell  whether  Black  Tom  even  knew  where  he  was,  and 
the  bobbed-haired  girl  toyed  with  a  string  of  jade  beads  and 
yawned.  Anne  moved  a  little  and  so  obstructed  the  view  of 
the  squat  woman.  Hilary  continued : 

"There  was,  of  course,  no  written  and  official  agreement 
that  the  men  would  not  strike,  but  it  was  understood,  by  the 
law  of  good  will  and  decency.  The  world  has  been  through  a 
period  of  bitter  suffering  and  now  it  is  the  duty  of  every  one, 
from  the  top  to  the  bottom,  to  pull  and  pull  together.  That 
it  is  no  longer  possible  to  pay  the  war  time  wage,  when  labor 
is  scarce,  is  not  the  fault  of  any  one  individual.  We,  those 
who  happen  to  be  the  hirers  of  labor,  regret  this  as  much  as 
any  one.  The  men  ought  to  understand.  They  refuse  to  do 
so.  Every  method  has  been  tried,  short — of  strike-breakers." 
Hilary  paused  to  let  the  significance  sink  in.  "But  the  country 
is  full  of  men  eager  to  work,  desperate  for  work,  with  a  right 
to  work.  The  mayor  understands  the  situation.  He  will  pro- 
tect the  right  of  these  men  to  sell  their  labor.  He " 

Black  Tom  was  on  his  feet,  his  long,  narrow  head  thrust 
forward,  the  stinking  ash  of  his  cigar  falling  again  on  the 
bobbed-haired  girl,  who  again  brushed  it  off  with  an  exquisite- 
ly dainty  fillip  of  a  white  finger. 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         103 

"He  will,  will  he?  How  long  does  he  think  he's  going  to  run 
this  town?" 

Hilary  Wainwright  tapped  with  his  gavel,  a  little  sound 
like  a  woodpecker.  Every  one  but  Katya  was  looking  at  Tom 
now. 

"Just — about — as — long  as  it  will  take  to  bring  in  those 
strike-breakers."  Black  Tom's  stained  hand  moved  in  a  quick, 
drawing  motion,  gathering  the  strike-breakers  to  him.  "Just 
that  long  and  no  longer.  Bring  them  on,"  he  commanded. 
"You  can't  bring  them  too  soon.  Bring  them,  dozens,  hun- 
dreds, thousands — you  will  need  them  all." 

The  heavy  hands  moved  now  in  a  low,  undulating  wave,  the 
wave  of  advancing  thousands.  Anne  felt  Roger  rigid  beside 
her  and  her  own  heart  was  beating  thickly.  The  force  of  the 
man  was  terrific.  It  rayed  from  his  gaunt  body,  burned  in  his 
deep-set,  brown  eyes.  "Bring  them,  I  tell  you,  bring  them,  the 
poor,  starving  victims  you'll  fool  with  higher  wages  than 
you're  paying  the  present  ones;  hand  out  the  promises  you're 
laughing  in  your  sleeves  to  see  them  believe.  But — they  won't 
believe  them  long.  They'll  take  the  jobs  because  they  have 
to,  with  shame  in  their  hearts,  the  decent  ones,  and  in  the 
end  they'll  come  to  us."  He  paused,  and  a  smile,  so  sad,  so 
understanding,  so  full  of  pity  lit  his  face  that  Anne  saw 
Roger's  hands  grip  the  chair  arms. 

Instantly  Hilary  Wainwright  seized  the  opening.  "That's 
the  spirit  that's  doing  so  much  harm.  We  came  here  to-night, 
each  to  take  advantage  of  the  other's  greater  knowledge  along 
certain  lines,  but  we  can  get  nowhere  unless " 

"Unless  liars  like  you  get  out,"  Black  Tom  thundered,  fill- 
ing the  room  with  the  fury  of  his  anger,  although  he  scarcely 
raised  his  voice.  It  was  the  warning  rumble  of  thunder,  dis- 
tant, rolling  nearer.  "You've  held  the  power,  until  the  best  of 
you  have  forgotten  that  God  Almighty  didn't  create  the  world 
for  you.  But  he  didn't  and  He's  getting  sick  of  seeing  the 
mess  you've  made  of  it.  Not  much  longer,  not  so  very  long 
now."  In  the  pleasantly  warmed  air  before  him  he  seemed  to 
see  a  vision,  a  vision  that  suddenly  quelled  his  anger.  He 
smiled  a  slow,  understanding  smile  of  love  and  forgiveness. 
"You  can't  do  it;  why  do  you  try?  It's  not  you  against  us; 
can't  you  see  that?  It's  the  new  against  the  old,  the  worn  out, 
the  rotten.  It's  not  this  strike,  or  any  one  strike;  it's  men,  men 
beating  their  way  up  out  of  the  dark  below.  They're  coming, 


104        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

coming."  His  head,  bent  now,  seemed  to  hear  them  in  the 
stillness  that  filled  the  room.  "Coming  slowly,  with  bleeding 
feet,  the  way  your  God  marched  on  to  Calvary,  but — nothing 
will  stop  them.  Nothing."  And  then  he  laughed,  so  genuinely 
amused,  that  the  terrible  silence  shattered  in  little  clicks  of 
disgust.  "Strike-breakers!  Good  God,  a  bunch  of  starving 
boobs — to  hold  back  the  Social  Revolution!" 

The  apricot-colored  woman  was  the  first  to  move.  With  a 
decisive  gesture  she  snapped  her  gold  lorgnette  and  motioned 
the  bald-headed  man  to  bring  her  cape.  At  his  desk,  Hilary 
Wainwright  looked  helplessly  about  for  a  moment,  then  rose 
and  walked  down  to  the  group  of  directors. 

Katya  Orloff  drew  on  the  jacket  she  had  only  partly  loosed. 
The  pretty  girl  was  already  pulling  a  grass-green  tarn  over  the 
chestnut  curls. 

"Come  on,  Tom.  Pete  and  Ikey  are  having  a  blowout.  Let's 
beat  it.  There's  lots  of  time." 

The  man  did  not  seem  to  hear,  but  he  followed  her.  Too 
impatient  for  the  elevator,  whose  driver,  expecting  a  protracted 
"row,"  had  gone  into  the  pool  parlor  in  the  next  basement, 
they  ran  down  the  stairs.  Before  they  turned  the  first  flight, 
Anne  heard  the  girl  laughing  gayly. 

Katya  stepped  up  to  Roger  with  a  look  that  Anne  resented 
personally.  It  was  the  smile  of  an  older  person  to  a  small 
boy,  not  a  precocious  annoying  small  boy,  but  the  kind  of 
boy  one  refers  to  as  "an  exceedingly  bright  little  chap." 

"Your  meeting  was  not  a  success."  She  spoke  with  a  soft 
burr,  impossible  to  reproduce,  a  thick,  throaty  tone  with  an 
odor  of  foreignness  in  it. 

"No,"  Roger  answered  shortly.    "It  wasn't." 

She  seemed  to  be  going  to  say  something  else,  changed  her 
mind  and  clumped  off  alone. 

The  elevator  man  had  come  back  to  his  post.  In  a  few 
moments  the  room  was  empty  of  all  save  Roger  and  Anne. 

"I  suppose  you  have  to  wait,"  Anne  began,  when  a  long, 
pale  face,  apparently  disconnected  from  any  body,  appeared  at 
the  door  of  Hilary's  private  office. 

"No  need,  Williams;  they're  gone." 

"Gone,  sir!" 

"Gone.  Slipped.  Vamoosed,"  Roger  added  in  an  urge  to 
shock  the  frozen  composure  of  that  face.  "Sandwiches  all 
wasted  unless — you  eat  them  yourself." 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         105 

The  face  retreated  in  shocked  but  respectful  silence.  Roger 
laughed  and  Hilary  Wainwright  entered.  There  was  a  short, 
awkward  silence,  and  then  Hilary  said  hurriedly,  as  if,  in  the 
interval  of  his  absence,  he  had  accumulated  unforeseen  but  im- 
portant duties: 

"Would  you  mind  locking  up,  Barton?"  He  took  some 
papers  from  his  desk,  his  raincoat  and  umbrella,  and,  with  a 
gracious  smile  to  Anne,  moved  to  the  door.  "See  you  in  the 
morning,  Roger,"  he  threw  back  and  was  gone. 

Williams  had  already  disappeared.  The  untouched  sand- 
wiches Roger  put  into  a  box,  switched  off  the  lights  and  locked 
the  doors.  When  he  presented  the  astounded  elevator  boy 
with  at  least  a  hundred  very  delicately  cut  sandwiches,  the  boy 
grinned;  but  Roger  did  not  smile  in  return. 

"Let's  walk,"  Anne  suggested. 

"Do  you  feel  like  it?    I'd  like  to." 

They  went  on  in  silence. 

"Who's  that  pretty  girl  with  the  bobbed  hair  that  went  out 
with  Black  Tom?" 

"Merle  something.  I  don't  know  her  last  name.  She  lives 
with  Black  Tom." 

Anne  stopped.  "Lives  with  him!  Do  you  mean — that — 
that  they  live  together?" 

"Yes.  He  has  a  wife  somewhere  who  won't  divorce  him. 
He  hasn't  even  seen  her  for  years,  I  believe.  But  I  don't 
know  much  about  it." 

Anne  shuddered.  "She's  so  young  and  clean  and  pretty. 
He's  all  worn  and  old  enough  to  be  her  father." 

Roger  shrugged.  "Sex  is  queer.  You  can  never  tell  a 
thing  about  it." 

Disgust  touched  Anne.  She  had  felt  the  man's  spirit,  but 
now  his  body  obstructed  her  vision.  She  could  think  of  noth- 
ing but  those  scarred  hands,  and  wide,  rather  heavy  lips 
caressing  the  clean  daintiness  of  the  girl. 

"It  makes  me  sick,"  she  said  in  a  tight,  hard  tone.  "A  leader 
of  men,  a  kind  of  prophet  of  the  oppressed  living  like  that! 
It's  sickening." 

Roger  looked  at  her  quickly.  "What  has  his  private  life  to 
do  with  it?  He  is  a  leader,  a  prophet." 

"It  has  a  lot  to  do  with  it.  For  a  moment  there,  he  looked 
as  if  he  were  really  seeing  visions,  clean,  high,  unselfish  ideals. 
It's  a  pity  he  can't  see  himself  and — and  that  child." 


io6        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Rubbish,  Anne.  She's  no  child.  He  probably  didn't  kid- 
nap her." 

"Nor  will  Hilary  Wainwright  and  those  men  Tom  O'Connell 
despises  kidnap  the  strike-breakers,"  Anne  went  on  hotly. 
"They  will  come  of  their  own  free  wills — 'the  poor,  deluded 
victims,  fooled  with  promises.' " 

Roger  looked  at  her  helplessly.  He  wished  he  had  not  taken 
Anne's  arm,  because  now,  he  could  not  very  well  drop  it.  If 
he  did,  Anne  would  think  he  was  angry.  And  he  was  not 
angry. 

They  walked  on  again  in  silence,  until  Anne  asked  with  a 
pecking,  personal  intrusion  into  the  calm  he  had  captured 
again  in  the  silence: 

"Does  Katya  Orloff  live  with  some  one  too?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Roger  answered  impatiently.  "Really, 
Anne,  I  don't  know  anything  about  the  private  lives  of  any  of 
them." 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

THE  next  morning  Roger  reached  the  office  at  half  past 
nine  but  Hilary  was  already  there.  It  was  the  first 
morning  of  a  clear  sunshine  after  weeks  of  rain,  and  Hilary, 
even  more  groomed  and  manicured  than  usual,  looked  as  if  he, 
too,  had  emerged  into  a  new  mood.  There  was  a  new  crisp- 
ness  in  his  manner;  business  efficiency  sparkled  in  his  quick 
movements,  his  hasty  finishing  of  a  memorandum,  the  way  he 
nodded  to  Roger. 

"Just  a  moment,  Barton.  I'll  be  through  in  a  jiffy."  Usu- 
ally Roger  passed  on  to  his  own  partitioned  end  of  the  room, 
and  began  on  work  arranged  the  night  before.  But  now  he 
sat  down  and  waited  for  Hilary.  Seated  so,  to  one  side  and 
just  a  little  behind  Hilary,  Roger  saw  him  spiritually  fore- 
shortened in  the  reflection  of  last  evening.  He  looked  tight 
and  secure,  encased  in  his  own  assurances  of  safety  as  in  a 
spiritual  corset.  In  a  moment  he  had  blotted  the  paper  and 
turned  to  Roger. 

"Well,"  he  began  genially,  "we  didn't  put  it  over,  did  we? 
Not  discouraged,  I  hope?" 

"Not  at  all." 

Hilary  seemed  balked,  reconsidered  what  he  had  arranged 
for  his  next  sentence,  and  said  instead: 

"I  rather  over-reached  myself  in  having  Tom  O'Connell. 
He's  an  uncertain  quantity,  a  regular  firebrand.  And  he  isn't 
the  power  he  thinks  he  is.  When  it  comes  to  a  pinch,  the  men 
will  desert  him.  They're  more  level-headed  than  he  gives  them 
credit  for." 

"The  men  forced  to  scab,"  Roger  inquired,  and,  at  the  sharp 
look  Hilary  darted  to  him,  added  "by  the  pinch  of  hunger?" 

Hilary  tapped  for  a  moment,  then  made  his  decision  with  a 
quick  frown. 

"Barton,  just  where  do  you  stand  on  that  meeting  last 
night?" 

"With  Tom  O'Connell,"  Roger  said  and  rose. 

107 


io8         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

Hilary  rose  too.  They  looked  at  each  other.  Roger  smiled 
first. 

"I  suppose  it  was  bound  to  come,"  Hilary  said,  relieved. 

"Yes.  I  have  thought  for  some  time — yes — it  had  to  come." 
Roger  almost  respected  him  for  his  honesty  and  when,  with  a 
truly  regretful  smile,  Hilary  held  out  his  hand,  Roger  was 
able  to  return  the  shake  without  scorn.  "We  see  things  too 
differently  to  work  well  together." 

"Yes.    I  feel  like  a  fish  out  of  water,  more  so  every  day." 

Hilary  twinkled.  "Well,  if  you're  going  to  jump  into  the 
sea  I  think  you're  headed  for — I  hope  you  won't  drown,"  was 
his  comment. 

"I'll  try  to  swim,"  Roger  agreed,  and  then  followed  a  short 
talk  of  work  Roger  was  leaving  undone.  "If  it  will  help  out, 
I'll  stay  till  you  get  some  one." 

"N-o,  you  needn't.  I'm  taking  on  Hawthorne  from  the 
auditing  department  as  my  private  secretary.  In  fact,  I'm 
thinking  of  changing  the  angle  of  some  of  the  work  quite  mate- 
rially. It's  no  good  wasting  brains  and  money  on  conditions 
that  aren't  ripe  for  them." 

"None  at  all,"  Roger  agreed. 

At  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  it  was  over.  Roger  was 
out  again  in  the  warm  morning  sunshine.  And  then  he  thought 
of  Anne. 

Would  Anne  understand?  Once  he  would  have  been  sure. 
Now  he  did  not  know.  He  was  getting  to  know  less  and  less 
how  Anne  would  stand  on  many  questions.  Last  night  she  had 
seemed  to  grasp  the  power  and  soul  of  Tom  O'Connell,  and 
then,  when  the  one  great  fetish  of  the  sane  and  respectable 
middle  class  was  violated,  when  the  conventional  sanctity  of 
marriage  was  imperiled,  Anne  had  retreated  behind  the  great 
bourgeois  virtue  of  "decency,"  as  smug  and  prim  and  spirit- 
ually corseted  as  Hilary  himself. 

Roger  went  slowly  up  the  long  flight  of  steps  and  came  on 
Anne,  weeding  the  trailers  from  a  border  of  violets.  Bent  so 
over  the  bed,  her  hands  and  arms  spattered  with  rich  black 
earth,  her  silvery  blonde  hair  shining  in  the  sun,  Anne  looked 
like  a  little  girl.  Tenderness  touched  Roger.  Anne  looked 
up. 

"You've  quit,"  she  said  quickly. 

Roger  nodded. 

"I  think  I  knew  you  would — last  night."    Anne  rose  and 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         109 

shook  the  loam  from  her  fingers.  Still  her  tone  had  told  Roger 
nothing. 

"Do  you  thing  I  did  wrong?    Are  you  angry?" 

"Why,  Roger,  what  a  silly  question.  If  you  felt  it  was  wrong 
to  work  with  him,  of  course  you  did  right.  And  I  would  never 
be  angry  at  your  doing  what  you  thought  was  right.  I  don't 
think  that's  quite  fair,  do  you?" 

And  still  Roger  did  not  know  how  she  really  felt. 

Anne  picked  up  the  basket  and  trowel  and  Roger  took  them 
from  her. 

"Finished?  You  look  as  if  you  had  just  started  in."  Ten 
minutes  earlier  Roger  would  have  been  disappointed  that  Anne 
could  go  on  with  the  ordinary  day's  work  in  face  of  the  great 
event;  now  he  resented  her  silent  attitude  that  the  course  of 
the  day  had  been  terminated  by  his  act.  He  walked  beside 
her  to  the  kitchen  door,  but  it  seemed  impossible  to  go  in  be- 
tween walls  and  leave  the  pungent  earth  and  blue  sky. 

"I  say,  let's  celebrate.  Let's  go  over  to  Tamalpais.  We've 
never  taken  that  scenic  trip.  We'll  make  a  whole  day  of  it, 
have  lunch  at  the  inn."  Still,  in  her  centuries  of  rest,  the 
Sleeping  Beauty  lay  along  the  ridge.  "Look  at  the  old  girl, 
isn't  she  clear?  I  was  always  a  bit  uncertain  about  her  nose, 
but  there  it  is.  Quite  a  feature;  looks  as  if  she  were  sniffing 
this  gorgeous  day.  Well,  do  we  sniff  too?" 

Anne  smiled  and  put  her  gardening  things  on  their  shelf  by 
the  door. 

"Can't,  dear,  not  to-day.  Mamma's  been  waiting  for  me  to 
come  up  and  finish  that  house  dress.  To-day's  the  best  for 
her.  Pretty  soon  I  won't  have  a  thing  I  can  wear." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  do  so  much  sewing,  Anne.  Can't  you 
buy  baby  things  and — and  maternity  clothes?  I'd  a  lot 
rather  you  did  or  would  hire  somebody,  than  refuse  to  go  on 
picnics  with  me,"  he  ended  with  a  pleading,  boyish  look,  that 
did  not  influence  Anne  in  the  least.  It  seemed  hardly  the 
time  to  suggest  buying  clothes  or  hiring  help. 

"Yes.    But  it's  so  much  cheaper.    I  don't  mind  sewing." 

Roger  felt  his  pleasure  in  the  picnic  die.  "All  right,  honey, 
run  along  if  you  really  want  to.  But  let's  go  to  somewhere  for 
dinner  to-night.  I  feel  spaghetti-ish.  How's  Ramillotti's?" 

"Let's  wait  and  see  how  we  feel  then,"  Anne  parried.  "A 
celebration  that's  all  cut  and  dried  beforehand  isn't  much  of 
a  celebration,  is  it?" 


no        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

And  then,  because  Anne  did  look  so  pretty  in  her  big  gar- 
dening apron  standing  in  the  full  sunshine,  Roger  picked  her 
up  and  kissed  her. 

"Don't  sew  too  hard  and  get  all  tired  out.  I  think  I'll  go 
down  to  the  library  for  a  while.  There's  a  lot  of  reading  I've 
been  wanting  to  do  for  a  long  time.  I'll  get  a  chance  now." 

Until  Anne  reached  Hilda's  front  door,  she  wondered  what 
she  would  do  if  her  mother  were  out.  She  could  scarcely  sit 
on  the  front  steps  and  she  would  not  go  back.  But  she  was 
just  in  time.  Hilda  was  half  way  downstairs  when  Anne 
rang. 

"Of  all  people!  I  just  knew  something  nice  was  going  to 
happen  to-day."  Hilda  trilled  with  a  gay  laugh,  for  Anne 
rarely  came  in  the  morning,  and  Hilda  adored  all-day  visits. 

"You  were  going  out,  mamma." 

"Not  any  place  I  had  to.  I  just  couldn't  stay  in  alone  to- 
day." They  went  upstairs  hand  in  hand. 

"I  thought,  perhaps,  we  might  finish  that  gingham.  The 
idea  of  it's  hanging  round  half  done  has  gotten  on  my  nerves." 

"Never  felt  more  like  sewing.  A  nice  long  day  ahead  always 
^eems  to  have  so  much  more  time  in  it  than  the  same  number 
of  hours  chopped  up  during  the  week.  You  ought  to  be  glad 
Roger  doesn't  come  home  to  lunch,  Anne.  When  I  was  work- 
ing at  Belle's  baby  clothes  it  seemed  to  me  as  soon  as  I  got 
started  it  was  time  to  stop  and  fix  lunch.  I'll  just  put  these 
dishes  out  of  the  way  and  we'll  get  right  at  it." 

She  took  off  her  things,  carried  the  unwashed  breakfast 
dishes  into  the  pantry  and  closed  the  door  on  them.  The 
broken  egg-shell  and  scraps  of  toast  on  the  stove  she  swept  into 
the  coal-scuttle,  the  crumbs  from  the  oilcloth-covered  break- 
fast table  followed,  and  the  scuttle  was  deposited  on  the  back 
porch.  While  she  rolled  the  sewing  machine  in  from  the  hall, 
Anne  swept  the  floor. 

"This  is  nice."  Hilda's  eyes  danced;  even  the  gray  curls  on 
her  neck  seemed  to  bob  merrily.  "Now,  if  you'll  just  slip  off 
your  dress,  I'll  fit  it." 

When  it  was  pinned  to  the  right  length,  Hilda  leaned  back 
on  her  heels  and  admired. 

"That's  a  fine  pattern.  Wonderful  how  they  get  things 
regulated  now — no  riding  up  in  front  as  you  get  bigger.  Why, 
you  won't  scarcely  show  in  that  at  all,  right  up  to  the  end." 

Anne  felt  the  same  touch  of  distaste  she  always  did  when  her 


Ill 

mother  referred  to  her  physical  condition.  There  was  some- 
thing in  Hilda's  manner  that  stripped  the  miracle  to  its  physi- 
ological basis,  and,  although  she  tried  not  to,  Anne  always 
felt  naked  before  it.  She  had  endured  a  really  difficult  half- 
hour  when  she  had  first  told  Hilda  of  Roger  Mitchell  Barton. 

"It's  pretty.  What's  more  important,  it  will  keep  clean  a 
long  time  without  washing." 

Hilda  laughed.  "Getting  practical  at  last.  Nothing  like  a 
baby  for  doing  that.  Do  you  remember  the  arguments  we  used 
to  have  when  you  were  fourteen,  about  that  black  sateen  petti- 
coat? You  always  insisted  that  it  must  be  just  as  dirty  as  if 
it  were  white,  and  wanted  to  send  it  to  the  laundry  every 
week?" 

Anne  nodded.  How  she  had  loathed  dark  clothes  supposed 
not  to  show  the  dirt!  "I  must  have  been  a  nasty  child,  always 
fussing  about  something." 

"You  weren't  at  all.  But  you  were  pretty  finicky  and  high- 
falutin.  I  never  did  know  what  was  going  to  send  you  off.  And 
how  you  loved  pretty  things!  Even  as  a  tiny  baby,  I  always  felt 
you  enjoyed  having  your  best  things  on.  You  used  to  feel  one 
dress,  rub  your  little  hands  up  and  down  it  softly — it  was 
really  a  lovely  cambric;  papa's  boss's  wife  sent  it;  her  baby 
had  outgrown  it — and  goo  and  smile.  I  suppose  you  would 
have  a  fit  to  see  his  Highness  dressed  in  any  one  else's  cast- 
offs,  but  I  was  glad  to  get  it.  How  far  along's  the  layette?" 

"Most  of  the  under-things  are  done,  not  quite  all.  I  haven't 
begun  on  dresses." 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  buy  those,  the  best  ones?" 

"No— I  don't— think  I  will.    They'll  be  cheaper  to  make." 

"But  they're  such  close  sewing  and  you  don't  like  that  kind 
of  work,  tucks  and  hemstitching.  Don't  be  a  penny-wise  and 
a  pound-foolish  and  get  all  frazzled  out,  Anne." 

"No — at  least — I  won't  be  a  pound-foolish.  Roger's  left 
Mr.  Wainwright." 

"Oh!"  Hilda  gasped.    "Oh,  Anne,  when  did  it  happen?" 

Anne  tried  to  laugh.    "This  morning." 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  go  right  straight  home, 
dear?"  she  whispered  as  if  Anne  had  communicated  Roger's 
sudden  death. 

"Why?    There's  nothing  to  do." 

"N-o.  I  don't  suppose  there  is.  But — what  happened, 
with  the  baby  and  everything?" 


H2        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Nothing  special.  They  don't  agree.  It's  been  coming  on 
for  some  months.  Roger  doesn't  feel  that  Mr.  Wainwright 
is  sincere  and  he  can't  work  with  him." 

"Well,  I  must  say 

"And  I  wouldn't  have  him  stay  a  minute  when  he  feels  like 
that." 

"NQj  dear,  I  don't  suppose  you  would,"  Hilda  hastily  con- 
ciliated Anne's  "condition."  "But  it  does  seem  too  bad  that 
his  conscience  got  worked  up  just  at  this  time.  A  few  months 
more " 

"This  is  the  best  possible  time,"  Anne  said  decidedly. 
"There's  no  extra  expense  now." 

"No.  But  when  a  woman's  carrying,  she  likes  to  feel  a  good 
safe  road  ahead.  It's  nature,  I  suppose,  like  birds  building 
nests  and  all  that.  If  papa  had  suddenly  given  up  his  job 
when  I  was  in  your  condition,  like  as  not  you  would  have 
been  an  idiot.  I  should  have  worried  myself  sick.  But  you 
always  were  a  cool  little  customer." 

Anne  forced  a  smile  and  slipped  the  gingham  over  her  head. 

"If  you'll  stitch  the  skirt  seams,  mamma.  I'll  baste  this  col- 
lar. That's  the  only  tricky  part  in  the  whole  thing.  Perhaps 
we  can  finish  it  to-day." 

"We  certainly  can.    We'll  stay  right  with  it  till  it's  done." 

And  they  did,  stopping  only  for  a  cup  of  tea  and  some  very 
stale  cake,  about  one  o'clock.  At  three  the  dress  was  fin- 
ished. 

"Now,  you  go  lie  down  and  take  a  nap  and  when  you  wake 
phone  Roger  to  come  up  for  dinner.  He  hasn't  been  round  for 
ages,  not  since  Christmas."  Having  become  involved  in  the 
exact  date,  Hilda  slipped  over  it  quickly. 

"We  will  some  other  time,  moms,  but  I  can't  to-night." 

The  long  day  of  sewing  and  chatting,  and  constant  steering 
away  from  the  subject  of  Roger,  had  exhausted  Anne  and  she 
wanted  her  own  quiet  home,  which,  even  if  its  peace  were  now 
disturbed,  held  its  past  security,  and  a  calm,  quiet  cleanliness 
that  her  mother's  never  had.  "I've  got  all  the  things  in  for 
a  fussy  kind  of  supper  and  they'd  spoil." 

"Then  of  course  you  can't."  Death  itself  could  not  have 
been  a  greater  deterrent.  "What-all  are  you  going  to  have?" 

"Oh,  a  fussy  pudding,  and  mayonnaise  and  things." 

Anne  was  putting  on  her  things  in  the  bedroom  and  Hilda 
stood  watching,  a  little  envious  of  Anne's  calmness.  Mayon- 


naise  and  fussy  pudding!     Perhaps,  if  she  had  dared,  years 

"You  certainly  have  learned  to  be  some  cook,  Anne." 

"I  like  to  try  new  dishes."  Her  things  on,  Anne  moved  from 
the  room  and  when  she  had  passed  Hilda,  said,  "but  it's  the 
so-called  fussy  things  that  are  easiest.  Whipped  cream  and 
eggs  make  a  great  show,  but  any  fool  can  beat  them  up.  Lots 
of  things  are  harder.  I  don't  believe  I  could  make  a  decent 
pot-roast,  if  I  tried.  I  don't  even  know  what  part  of  the  ani- 
mal to  buy." 

"There  are  different  parts.  Cross-rib's  fine,  but  chuck's 
cheapest,  and  I  like  it  just  as  well." 

"And  it  takes  hours  and  hours,  doesn't  it?"  Anne  was  still 
moving  toward  the  stair-head,  her  back  to  Hilda. 

"No,  it  doesn't.  Lots  of  people  think  it  does  and  they  make 
those  dry,  leathery  roasts.  A  piece  big  enough  for  us  never 
took  more  than  a  couple  of  hours,  going  slow,  with  plenty  of 
suet." 

"Chuck,  going  slow,  two  hours,  plenty  of  suet,"  Anne  en- 
trenched it  in  her  memory,  and  then  Hilda  was  saying: 

"You  never  used  to  like  it,  but  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why. 
I  don't  think  there's  any  gravy  like  the  gravy  of  a  good  pot- 
roast.  And  there's  always  plenty  of  it." 

As  usual,  she  walked  down  the  stairs  with  Anne  and  kissed 
her  again  at  the  front  door. 

Roger  was  not  in  when  Anne  reached  home.  She  lit  the  gas- 
range  and  put  the  pot-roast  on  before  taking  off  her  things. 
When  it  was  simmering  at  the  right  rate,  she  shut  the  kitchen 
door  to  keep  the  odor  from  the  living-room,  changed  into  a 
kimono,  and  lay  down  on  the  living-room  couch. 

It  was  dusk,  with  the  first  faint  stars  winking  uncertainly  in 
the  deepening  twilight,  when  Roger  came  running  up  the  stairs. 
He  was  out  of  breath,  cool-skinned  and  glowing.  He  came 
straight  to  the  couch  and  kissed  her. 

"Well,  Princess,  which  is  it,  Pietro's  or  the  Pheasant?     I 
felt  spaghetti-ish  this  morning  but  it's  gradually  worked  round . 
to  planked  steak." 

Anne  sat  up  and  said  gayly,  "It's  neither.  It's  pot-roast, 
and  it'll  be  ready  about  six." 

Roger  stared,  the  sparkle  in  his  eyes  receding  slowly.  Still 
Anne  smiled  gayly  at  him.  "It's  the  first  one  I've  made  and 
it's  going  to  be  a  dandy." 


H4 

But  Roger  took  her  hands  in  his,  and  Anne's  gayety  died. 
They  looked  at  each  other,  and  then  Roger  said: 

"Anne,  please,  never  do  a  thing  like  this  again.  Don't  you 
trust  me,  dear?  We  believe  in  the  same  things,  don't  we? 
We're  not  afraid  of  anything,  are  we,  honey?" 

Something  in  Anne  urged  her  to  stand  her  ground.  Some- 
thing else  made  her  want  to  cry  and  creep  close  to  Roger  and 
be  held  safe  from  her  own  fears  and  "common-sense."  She 
was  very  tired.  Her  lips  trembled.  Roger  drew  her  quickly 
into  his  arms.  They  clung  so  for  a  moment,  as  if  holding 
fiercely  against  a  force  reaching  toward  them.  Then  Roger 
turned  Anne's  face  to  his. 

"Princess,  let's  throw  that  damned  pot-roast  out." 

Anne  smiled  faintly.  "That  would  be  silly.  It's  really  an 
awfully  good  pot-roast.  There,  you  can  smell  it.  It  must  be 
going  a  little  too  fast." 

But  Roger  did  not  smile.  "I  won't  eat  it.  It  smells — like 
death." 

"Do  you  really  feel  like  that?" 

"I  do,  Anne,  really." 

"Then  we'll  go  and  have  planked  steak." 

In  the  sweetness  of  reconciliation,  Roger  forgot  to  throw  out 
the  pot-roast.  They  had  a  gay  and  expensive  dinner  at  the 
Pheasant  and  went  to  the  theater  afterwards. 

But,  for  the  rest  of  the  week,  Roger  ate  savoury  ragouts, 
and  meat  pies  which  taxed  Anne's  ingenuity  to  the  utmost, 
especially  when  the  pot-roast  had  dwindled  to  a  dry,  outer 
rim. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

were  times  in  the  next  month  when  Roger  seriously 
J_  considered  going  back  into  the  law.  He  even  went  so  far 
as  looking  up  Walter  Marsh,  an  old  college  chum  with  whom  he 
had  rather  grown  out  of  touch,  now  a  very  successful  corpo- 
ration lawyer.  But  at  Marsh's  hints  that  there  was  an  open- 
ing with  him  if  Roger  cared  to  consider  it,  Roger  always  hur- 
ried away  from  further  discussion.  Nor  did  he  tell  Anne  of 
these  visits. 

Anne  never  referred  to  his  leaving  Wainwright,  nor  did  she 
ever  again  serve  pot-roast.  Apparently  their  method  of  life 
was  unchanged.  Roger  could  not  put  his  finger  on  any  one 
incident,  recall  a  single  allusion  of  Anne's,  but  he  now  felt 
encased  in  an  atmosphere  of  watching,  of  tight  guardedness, 
and  of  economical  maneuverings.  Outwardly  Anne  seemed  as 
cheerful  as  ever,  but  Roger  could  feel  unexpressed  criticism 
moving  shadow-like  about  him,  and  his  nerves  tightened.  He 
often  grew  irritable  and  then  desperately  contrite.  Irritation 
at  this  time  was  brutal,  but  Roger  could  not  shake  off  the 
feeling  of  breathing  imperceptible  particles  of  objection.  Some- 
times he  started  to  talk  out  their  situation  frankly,  but  it 
always  ended  in  a  fog.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  beating  with 
exaggerated  violence  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  The  air  was  full  of 
minute,  subtle  differences,  sudden  closings  of  Anne's  lips,  sen- 
tences caught  and  deftly  turned  from  their  first  intention;  and 
of  Anne's  patience.  This  patience  was  the  hardest  to  stand 
without  reference. 

Again  and  again  Roger  tried  to  explain  this  growing  tensity 
between  them  by  Anne's  nervous  condition.  But  Anne  had 
never  felt  better  in  her  life.  Always  pretty  in  a  cool,  silvery 
way,  there  were  moments  now  when  Anne  seemed  to  send 
from  within  a  living,  golden  flame.  Often,  in  the  evenings, 
when  Anne  sat,  her  head  bent  above  the  small,  white  sewing 
in  her  lap,  Roger  trembled,  awed  and  a  little  frightened  before 
the  marvel  of  this  thing  that  was  happening  to  Anne. 

"5 


n6        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

It  was  after  a  sudden,  stabbing  vision  of  Anne  like  this,  that 
Roger  went  to  Walter  Marsh's  office  for  the  second  time  in  one 
week. 

"Hello."  Walter  Marsh  put  away  some  important  work  to 
greet  Roger.  "Well,  what's  the  decision?" 

Up  to  the  very  door,  Roger  had  intended  to  accept  the  good 
opening  Marsh  had  definitely  offered  him  at  the  last  visit,  but, 
now,  aS  he  looked  about  the  beautifully  furnished  office,  the 
hard  processes  of  the  law  softened  by  the  tinted  walls,  the 
thick  rugs,  the  great  bunch  of  chrysanthemums  in  the  old-blue, 
China  vase,  he  sparred  for  time. 

"Haven't  made  one  yet." 

Marsh  frowned.  His  genuine  admiration  for  Roger's  ability 
was  scarcely  proof  against  a  certain  quality  in  Roger  that  he 
had  always  felt  might,  and  now  feared  had  already,  swamped 
Roger's  sense  of  proportion.  As  he  put  it  to  his  wife,  Helen: 
"Roger's  got  that  dog-goned  idealist  sophistry  in  his  bean,  that 
nothing  can  be  right  or  just  or  fine — if  you  make  a  decent  living 
at  it.  And  the  joke  of  it,  or  the  tragedy  for  men  like  Roger,  is 
that  it's  only  outsiders  like  him  who  feel  that  way.  You  can't 
get  a  real  radical  to  do  a  thing  without  paying  him  up  to  the 
hilt.  I'll  wager  that  Labor  god,  O'Connell  himself,  has  a  pile 
salted  down  safely."  For,  like  all  financially  successful  men, 
Walter  Marsh  had  a  fixed  belief  that  no  able,  sane  person 
worked  long  for  an  ideal  alone. 

"Well,  it's  up  to  you,"  he  said  shortly. 

For,  although  he  was  willing  to  talk  the  matter  over  with 
Roger  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  if  it  would  lead  anywhere, 
he  was  not  willing  to  waste  more  time  even  on  Roger,  who, 
after  seven  days'  consideration  of  a  decidedly  advantageous 
opening,  still  announced  that  he  had  reached  no  decision.  He 
picked  up  his  pen,  not  quite  indicating  the  interview  over,  but 
very  clearly  expressing  his  feeling  toward  Roger.  Years  after, 
Roger  used  to  wonder  what  he  would  have  done,  if  Walter 
Marsh  had  not  picked  up  his  pen  in  just  that  way,  at  just  that 
moment.  He  looked  quietly  at  Marsh,  only  a  few  years  older 
than  himself,  but  already  with  the  fine  lines  of  nervous  con- 
centration about  his  eyes,  blue  eyes  glazed  in  assurance  of  their 
owner's  mental  processes;  the  eyes  of  a  very  successful  man 
who  realizes  the  uselessness  of  fretting  his  conscience  over  con- 
ditions beyond  his  personal  power  to  change. 

"But  I  don't  think  I'll  take  you  up,"  Roger  went  on  as  if 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         117 

no  interval  had  intervened.  "I've  grown  too  far  away  from 
the  law.  I  can't  go  back." 

"Or  ahead,"  Walter  almost  snapped  in  his  honest  disap- 
pointment. 

"Perhaps  not."    For  a  moment  Roger  felt  very  much  alone. 

"Well,  I  can't  change  you  and  I  won't  try.  I  hope  you'll 
make  a  go  of  anything  you  settle  to."  Unconsciously  Marsh 
intimated  his  doubt  of  Roger's  ever  settling  to  anything  worth 
while. 

Roger  smiled,  his  momentary  sadness  dissolved  in  Marsh's 
solicitude.  Walter  Marsh  might  have  been  an  elderly  uncle, 
washing  his  hands  of  a  wild  nephew. 

"Thanks,  just  the  same,  old  chap.  Your  offer  was  certainly 
generous." 

For  a  moment  the  other  felt  inclined  to  tell  him  that  it 
would  remain  open,  changed  his  mind,  and  took  Roger's  out- 
stretched hand. 

"When  you  get  settled,  let  me  know.  And  come  over  to 
dinner  some  night,  you  and  Anne.  Helen's  always  asking  me 
why  I  don't  make  you." 

"We  will." 

Roger  left  the  office,  glad  that  he  had  not  told  Anne  where 
he  was  going. 

Dinner  was  ready  when  he  reached  home  and  they  sat  down 
at  the  daintily  set  table  on  the  porch.  Now  that  spring  was 
come  they  had  gone  back  to  the  pleasant  custom.  To-night,  in 
his  relief  at  having  put  the  possibility  of  Walter  Marsh 
behind  him,  Roger  was  gayer  than  he  had  been  for  weeks. 
Anne  noticed  and  wondered  and  tried  to  edge  the  talk  around 
to  discovery,  and  finally,  to  Roger's  astonishment,  mentioned 
Marsh. 

"I  see  Walter  Marsh's  been  engaged  for  that  big  Southern 
Pacific  case." 

"Yes,  he's  getting  ahead  wonderfully.  He'll  end  way  up 
yet." 

"Do  you  think  he's  honest?"  Anne  asked  after  a  moment 
filled  with  pouring  the  black  coffee  into  the  small  cups. 

"Y-e-s,  in  a  way.  Personally,  he's  as  straight  as  a  die. 
But  he's  divided  his  life  into  sections,  private  and  public.  He'll 
do  as  corporation  lawyer  for  the  Southern  Pacific  what  he 
would  never  dream  of  doing  for  himself." 

Anne  drank  her  coffee  slowly.    "I  suppose  he  compromises 


n8         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

by  being  'a  mild  progressive'  and  making  things  better  'along 
the  line  they  are.' " 

Roger  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed  until  Anne 
joined  him. 

"Princess,  you'd  make  a  first  class  lawyer  yourself.  Walter 
calls  himself  a  liberal  already." 

"And  you're — a  Socialist,  I  suppose?" 

Roger  stopped  laughing.    "I  suppose  I  am.    Are  you?" 

"I — don't  know.    I  don't  know  enough  about  it." 

"I  don't  know  much  myself,  not  the  technical  details.  But 
it  seems  to  me  it's  the  only  thing  that  isn't  trying  to  patch  a 
rotten  piece  of  cloth.  It  wants  to  weave  a  new  one,  from 
what  I  understand." 

"Some  job,"  Anne  said  and  lit  the  single  cigarette  she  ever 
smoked,  the  after-dinner  cigarette  that  Roger  had  taught  her 
to  take  soon  after  their  marriage,  when  they  had  done  all  things 
together. 

"It  certainly  is.  But  a  worth-while  one.  Anne,  suppose  we 
frankly  join  some  radical  group  and  begin  weaving,  too." 

Anne  puffed,  flicked  the  ash  into  the  tiny  lacquer  tray,  and 
said  with  more  calmness  than  she  felt: 

"I  don't  think  I  will,  Roger.  Not  till  I  know  more  about  it. 
I  don't  believe  in  jumping  in  and  out  of  things." 

Roger  looked  away.  He  felt  that  he  had  again  been  caught 
in  the  cloud  of  dust.  Anne  smoked  her  cigarette  and  lit  a  sec- 
ond. Only  by  this  extraordinary  act  could  she  bring  herself  to 
the  point  she  had  decided  upon  that  afternoon.  When  it  was 
smoked  quite  through,  she  said  calmly: 

"Why  don't  you  go  and  see  Tom  O'Connell?" 

"What?"  he  echoed  stupidly. 

"Why  not?    Your  sympathies  are  with  him." 

Now  that  Anne  had  worded  it,  Roger  recognized  the  longing 
he  had  been  stifling  for  weeks.  To  do  something  he  believed 
in  with  his  whole  soul.  His  eyes  softened  and  coming  quickly 
about  the  table  he  knelt  beside  her. 

"Princess,"  he  whispered,  "you're  the  most  wonderful  thing 
in  the  world." 

Anne  looked  down  into  Roger's  eyes  and  wondered.  Why 
did  he  think  it  wonderful  for  her  to  suggest  this  thing  that  she 
had  felt  in  him  for  weeks.  Had  he  been  waiting  for  her  to  do 
so?  Why?  What  would  he  have  done  if  she  had  not? 

Before  her  quiet,  searching  look,  Roger's  eyes  fell. 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         119 

"Forgive  me,  honey,"  he  whispered. 

Roger  had  mistrusted.  His  plea  for  forgiveness  proved  it. 
Something  deep  in  Anne  hardened,  but  she  patted  his  cheek 
and  said  cheerfully. 

"Why  don't  you  look  him  up  to-night?    It's  early  yet." 

"Do  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me?"  Roger  teased  with  a  look 
in  his  eyes  that  had  not  been  there  for  a  long  time. 

"No — of  course  I  don't,"  Anne  said,  and  he  kissed  her. 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN 

THE  next  day  Roger  went  to  Tom  O'Connell.  Through  a 
cloud  of  tobacco  smoke,  Roger  saw  him  at  the  end  of  the 
dusty  loft,  sprawled  on  the  edge  of  a  table  behind  a  low  rail- 
ing and  listening  to  two  short,  heavy  men  talking  at  once. 
Some  maps  and  statistical  charts  hung  from  the  rough,  wooden 
walls;  a  magazine-stand  stood  close  to  the  door,  piled  with 
papers  and  pamphlets,  red-bound,  or  with  glaring  red  splotches 
in  their  cover  designs.  Close  to  the  bench  on  which 
Roger  waited  some  one  was  pounding  a  typewriter  behind  a 
partition.  The  east  end  of  the  loft  was  enclosed  as  a  separate 
office  and  from  this  enclosure  came  the  voices  of  men  and 
women  talking  loudly.  The  whole  room  vibrated  to  the  feel 
of  a  rushing  force,  of  many  violent  plans  being  made  and 
driven  through  to  execution  in  an  incredibly  short  time.  No 
restraint  here,  no  polish,  no  modulation.  Right  or  wrong,  these 
people  believed  in  themselves.  Society  was  a  wall  through 
which,  by  brute  force,  they  would  drive  the  spike  of  their 
ideal.  Roger's  excitement  grew.  He  felt  like  the  unfortunate 
son  of  the  leading  citizen  in  a  small  town,  watching  a  magnifi- 
cent back-alley  fight  by  "de  gang." 

Suddenly  the  typewriter  beside  him  stopped,  and  Katya  Or- 
loff  peered  over  the  top  of  the  partition.  If  she  was  surprised 
she  did  not  show  it. 

"Come  in.  Tom  will  be  through  in  a  minute."  She  dis- 
appeared and  Roger  went  round  to  the  gate  she  opened. 
Katya's  desk  was  piled  with  papers,  carbons,  and  cigarette 
ashes.  Teetering  on  one  edge,  the  dregs  of  a  cup  of  black 
coffee,  into  which  Katya  had  dropped  the  crust  of  a  ham 
sandwich,  threatened  to  destroy  a  pile  of  clean  copy,  but 
didn't. 

"Sit  down."  Katya  motioned  to  an  unturned  apple  box  and 
Roger  sat  down.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  Katya  smiled.  A 
spark  lit  in  the  little  brown  eyes,  but  the  heavy  mouth  re- 
mained unmoved.  It  was  as  if  her  power  to  smile  was 

1 20 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         121 

slowly  dying.  The  eyes  alone  refused  to  petrify  in  the  devas- 
tating seriousness  of  Katya's  purpose.  Roger  smiled  back. 

"I  thought  you  would  come.    I  expected  you  sooner." 

"Did  you?"  Roger  withdrew  his  smile,  resentful  of  her 
assurance.  He  felt  that  Katya  caught  his  feeling,  but  she  did 
not  apologize.  Instead  she  offered  him  one  of  her  vile  ciga- 
rettes. Roger  refused. 

"They  are  beastly,  but  I  can't  smoke  anything  else  any 
more."  She  inhaled  and  the  cigarette  was  gone  in  a  few  deep 
breaths.  "But  I'm  really  glad  you  didn't  come  any  sooner. 
It  means  you've  thought  it  out  carefully.  We're  overloaded 
now  with  enthusiasm,  twigs  not  strong  enough  to  keep  the 
pot  boiling.  Hear  them  crackling?"  Her  frowsy  black  head 
jerked  toward  the  voices  of  the  two  men  talking  to  Tom. 
"Poor  Tom.  He'll  have  to  pour  water  on  them  and  then — two 
more  vanity-wounded  enemies." 

Katya's  voice,  husky  from  too  much  loud  speech-making  and 
the  vile  cigarettes,  had  unexpected  soft  spots,  rest  places,  quiet 
corners  of  pity  in  the  roar  of  her  faith.  Roger  felt  that  the 
woman  might  have  many  of  these  hidden  places,  little  corners 
of  pity  and  gentleness,  and  forgot  his  resentment. 

"I'll  promise  not  to  crackle." 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Twenty-nine.    Almost  thirty." 

"You're  married,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes." 

Katya  lit  another  cigarette.    "Got  any  ideas?" 

"No."  Roger  began  to  feel  like  a  small  boy  again. 

"That's  good.  You're  too  inexperienced  to  have  any  worth 
while;  too  obstinate  to  put  up  with  having  any  rooted  out. 
What  do  you  know  about  the  movement,  anyway?" 

"Practically  nothing,"  Roger  snapped.  After  ail,  Katya  had 
not  invented  her  Social  Revolution.  It  was  not  her  personal 
property. 

"  'Virgin  Soil,' "  Katya  grinned.    "Ever  read  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Like  it?" 

"Not  much." 

"Why?" 

"It  didn't  get  me." 

"Russian  literature  is  a  fad  with  most  Americans,  only  they 
won't  own  it.  But  some  day  you  will  like  it." 


122         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

She  might  as  well  have  said:  "Some  day  you  will  develop  to 
the  point  of  understanding  Russian  literature." 

For  the  present,  however,  she  had  finished  with  him.  She 
rose  now  above  the  fence  and  gave  a  long,  clear  whistle.  In- 
stantly the  two  men  stopped  talking. 

"No  more  time  to-day,  boys."  Black  Tom  answered  the 
whistle  with  two  short  notes  and  Katya  opened  the  gate. 

"I  say,  you're  not  going  to  let  the  thing  hang  in  mid-air, 
are  you?"  one  of  the  men  demanded  belligerently.  "You  think 
you've  got  the  whole  thing  in  your  own  pocket.  Well,  you 
haven't.  The  rest  of  us " 

"Get  out,"  Tom  thundered.  "Neither  of  you  has  a  sugges- 
tion worth  listening  to.  I  tell  you  we're  not  ready  yet.  You're 
like  a  lot  of  kids  with  firecrackers,  can't  wait  till  the  Fourth  to 
make  your  little  splutter.  I'm  not  going  to  fight  just  for  the 
sake  of  fighting." 

"You  tin  Czar " 

"Get  out." 

The  men  banged  out  of  the  loft  and  Katya  led  Roger  over 
to  Black  Tom. 

"Roger  Barton." 

The  big  man  stared  at  him,  still  concerned  with  the  others, 
until  Katya  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm  and  drew  him  back  to  the 
present. 

"Hilary  Wainwright's  secretary.  Sent  out  those  invita- 
tions." They  smiled  at  each  other,  and  Roger  bristled.  The 
courtesy  of  these  people  was  an  extraordinary  thing.  "He's 
left  and  wants  to  talk  to  you."  Like  a  nurse  delivering  her 
charge,  Katya  clumped  away. 

Black  Tom  glanced  at  the  desk  clock,  frowned  and  said 
shortly : 

"I  suppose  that  means  you  want  to  look  us  over  with  a  view 
to  coming  in?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  do  or  not,"  Roger  flung  at  him. 

Black  Tom  seemed  to  see  him  for  the  first  time.  He  smiled 
and  sat  down. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  we  get  pretty  gruff  in  this  thing. 
So  you've  left  Wainwright?  Consequential  ass.  What  do  you 
want  to  do?" 

"Anything  that  will  stop  the  output  of  more — consequential 
asses." 

Black  Tom  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed,  a  laugh 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD          123 

so  deep  and  eternally  young,  that  Roger  knew  the  man  could 
never  seriously  annoy  him  again. 

"You've  come  to  the  right  place.  That's  our  specialty," 
and  added,  "any  party  affiliations?" 

Roger  shook  his  head.    "Not  yet." 

"That's  all  right.  Don't — till  you're  ready.  When  your 
faith  needs  to  sign  itself  to  some  register,  do  it.  Right  Wing, 
Left  Wing  Socialist,  Syndicalist,  Communist,  I.  W.  W.,  they're 
all  headed  right  and  there's  something  the  matter  with  them 
all.  It  doesn't  matter  really;  start  a  new  party  if  you  like. 
Names,  names,"  he  added,  a  little  wearily,  "all  names  for  the 
same  thing — the  new  world  that's  struggling  to  be  born. 
Science,  art,  religion,  politics,  we're  all  fighting  for  the  same 
end — to  root  out  the  dead  old  forms,  give  new  growths  a 
chance.  We're  all  beating  in  our  different  ways  toward  the 
same  thing — Understanding,  Beauty,  Unity.  One  fits  in  where 
he  can."  He  looked  across  the  dirty  loft  to  a  group  of  men 
waiting  for  him  on  the  bench  where  Roger  had  sat  a  few 
moments  before.  "This  is  mine.  I  had  no  special  training, 
nothing  but  physical  strength  and  longing."  His  gaze  came 
back  to  his  own  hands,  broken  and  sparsely  covered  at  the 
wrists  and  knuckles  with  stiff  black  hair.  "I  worked  in  a 
Pennsylvania  coal  mine  when  I  was  twelve.  I  read  at  night. 
When  I  was  nineteen  I  went  for  a  while  to  night-school  with 
kids  thirteen  and  fourteen.  I  never  had  three  square  meals  a 
day  until  I  was  twenty-three.  I  lived  in  mines  and  shops  and 
libraries." 

He  paused,  and  it  seemed  to  Roger  that  he  had  gone  away, 
back  down  the  years,  alone.  In  those  crowded  years,  herded 
among  men,  he  had  learned  to  slip  away,  leave  his  gaunt,  over- 
worked body  to  the  crowd.  Privacy  was  a  spiritual  possession, 
free  to  his  will. 

He  jerked  himself  back  with  a  motion  of  his  bowed  shoul- 
ders. 

"Have  you  had  any  special  training  along  any  line?" 

"Yes,  I'm  a  lawyer." 

"Great.    We  need " 

"But  I'd  rather  not  practice,  anyhow  not  plead  in  court  for 
a  while.  I  don't  feel  that  I  understand  enough  about  the  thing 
as  a  whole.  I  want  to  soak  in  it,  feel  myself  honestly  a  part 
before  I  undertake  to  defend  men.  Is  that  an  out-of-the-way 
request?" 


i24         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

"It's  an  out-of-the-ordinary  request.  I  wish  more  men  felt 
as  you  do.  There  wouldn't  be  so  many  misunderstandings  and 
shiftings  around  and  party  splits.  I  guess  we  can  fit  you  in 
somewhere.  How  little  can  you  work  for?" 

Roger  did  not  answer  instantly. 

"Married?" 

"Yes." 

"Perhaps  you'd  better  talk  it  over  with  your  wife." 

"It's  not  necessary.    She — she's  with  me  in  this." 

"We  need  lawyers,  but  we  can't  pay  what  the  meanest  scrub 
can't  better  in  a  very  few  years.  What  have  you  been  get- 
ting?" 

"Fifty  a  week." 

"About  ten  beyond  our  possible  limit — with  expenses  when 
you  travel — but  not  fancy  ones.  You  can  take  outside  cases 
on  the  side — if  you  get  them  once  you're  known  as  one  of 
us.  That  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  us." 

"I  don't  want  any  'cases  on  the  side,'  not  for  the  present 
anyhow." 

Black  Tom  smiled.    "When  do  you  want  to  begin?" 

"Now." 

Black  Tom  hesitated.  Roger  felt  his  first  resentment  re- 
turning. He  leaned  forward. 

"This  thing  doesn't  belong  to  any  group,"  he  began.  "We 
all  happen  to  be  at  the  same  point  at  the  same  time.  I  know 
what  I'm  doing.  I " 

Black  Tom  laid  a  hand  on  his  knee.  "Boy,  you'll  have  to 
excuse  a  lot  of  manner  when  you're  one  of  us.  Our  material's 
men  and  we  get  to  handle  them  sometimes  as  if  they  were — 
pig  iron."  He  whistled  and  Katya  popped  above  the  fence. 
"Bring  me  the  Anderson  case." 

When  Katya  brought  it  he  said  briefly,  "Barton's  going  to 
work  with  us." 

Roger  noticed  that  he  did  not  say  Comrade  Barton  and 
wondered  whether  Black  Tom  did  not  quite  trust  him  yet. 
But  he  found  later  that  Black  Tom  tagged  no  man  with  arti-r 
ficial  distinction,  except  in  addressing  a  meeting  whose  sym- 
pathy he  was  not  quite  sure  of.  In  a  few  moments  he  had 
explained  the  case  to  Roger,  and  turned  him  back  to  Katya. 

"You  can  work  here  if  you  like.  It's  noisy  at  times,  but  we 
can  fix  you  up  with  a  kind  of  office  down  in  the  corner.  Or 
you  can  work  elsewhere." 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         125 

"Here.    I  don't  mind  noise." 

"Tell  Jim  to  fix  up  the  office  Philips  used  to  have,"  he  ordered 
Katya,  took  his  hat,  and  was  gone. 

"Let's  go  and  have  lunch,"  Katya  suggested.  "Tom's  prob- 
ably forgotten  a  lot  of  details  you  ought  to  know." 

But  Anne  was  expecting  him  and  anxious  to  hear.  "Suppose 
you  come  home  and  have  lunch  with  us?" 

Roger  thought  that  Katya  smiled,  but  was  not  quite  sure. 
One  never  was  sure  whether  Katya  smiled  unless  her  eyes 
actually  twinkled,  her  face  was  so  swarthy  and  still. 

On  the  way  home  Roger  listened  with  interest  to  Katya's 
history  of  the  Anderson  case,  but,  as  they  came  to  the  bottom 
of  the  long  flight,  he  wished  he  could  run  ahead  and  prepare 
Anne.  He  led  and  Katya  followed,  still  talking.  At  the  door 
they  met  Anne.  For  a  moment  she  looked  disturbed  and  then 
greeted  Katya  with  such  ease  that  Roger  felt  all  responsibility 
for  the  lunch  drop  from  him.  While  she  skilfully  reset  the 
table  and  twisted  the  menu  to  include  three  instead  of  two, 
Katya  talked  on. 

Nor  did  she  stop  when  Anne  summoned  them,  and  only  for 
short  periods  during  lunch.  From  the  Anderson  case  and  the 
Labor  Movement,  she  drifted  to  Russia,  to  her  native  village, 
to  the  Jewish  pogroms,  her  struggles  for  an  education,  her 
imprisonment  under  the  Czarist  system,  her  escape  and 
flight  from  Siberia  through  Sweden  to  Finland  and  the  United 
States;  her  gradual  migration  westward,  from  an  eastside  tene- 
ment in  New  York,  through  New  Jersey,  to  Chicago,  to  San 
Francisco.  She  talked  vehemently  but  without  bitterness.  In 
her  long  fight  for  an  idea,  she  had  become  impersonal. 

She  ate  almost  greedily,  but  neither  Anne  nor  Roger  felt 
that  she  knew  what  she  ate.  She  smoked  cigarette  after  ciga- 
rette, lighting  one  from  the  other,  and  drank  cup  after  cup 
of  black  coffee  without  noticing  that  Anne  refilled  her  cup. 
Anne  was  considering  making  more  coffee,  when  at  last  Katya 
broke  off. 

"You're  a  perfect  hostess,  Mrs.  Barton.  I  don't  believe 
you've  said  a  word." 

Anne  flushed.  Evidently  this  woman  had  not  expected  her 
interest. 

"It's  fascinating,"  she  said,  with  just  a  touch  of  primness 
that  brought  an  odd  look  to  Katya's  eyes.  Roger  felt  un- 
comfortable. 


126         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

"We've  never  had  a  chance  before  to  get  it  first-hand,"  he 
said  quietly,  and  saw  Katya's  eyes  twinkle.  She  rose  and,  to 
Roger's  embarrassment,  ran  her  hand  over  his  thick,  wavy 
hair. 

"You're  a  nice  boy." 

She  put  on  her  things,  waited  a  moment  for  Roger  to  join  her, 
but  when  he  made  no  motion,  shook  hands  with  both  and  went 
clumsily  down  the  stairs  without  looking  back. 

"Almost  as  conceited  as  Hilary  Wainwright,  in  her  own  way, 
isn't  she?"  Anne  said  demurely. 

Roger  laughed.  "You're  a  wiz.  I  hope  you  never  take  a  dis- 
like to  me." 

"Not  much  of  a  wiz  to  get  that  slam  about  a  perfect  hostess. 
As  if  one  couldn't  believe  in  Man  and  fruit  salad  at  the  same 
time." 

Roger  put  his  arm  about  her.  "We  can,  but  then,  you  know, 
we  are  exceptional  people." 

"Because,  really,  I  should  loathe  beet  soup  and  pickled 
fish  and  those  Russian  foods." 

"Honey  and  violet  stems  for  ours."  Roger  bent  to  kiss  her 
and  Anne  ran  her  fingers  through  his  hair,  stopped  abruptly 
and  said: 

"She's  really  a  terribly  lonely  soul,  for  all  her  world  in- 
terests." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder.  She  didn't  mention  any  relatives, 
after  her  childhood,  did  she?" 

When  they  came  again  into  the  house  Roger  picked  up  the 
Anderson  case  and  went  over  to  the  couch.  Anne  began  clear- 
ing the  table.  As  she  gathered  up  the  doilies,  she  asked  care- 
lessly: 

"What's  the  salary?" 

"Forty.  And  expenses,"  Roger  answered,  making  notes  on 
the  margin  of  a  sheet.  "Outside  cases  if  I  want  to.  But  I 
shall  not  take  any  for  a  while — anyhow." 

Anne  went  into  the  kitchen  without  comment. 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

THROUGH  the  next  three  months  Anne  thought  more  about 
money  than  she  had  ever  thought  in  her  life  before.  Dur- 
ing the  Wainwright  days  she  had  often  been  able  to  save 
ten  dollars  a  week,  but  now  that  this  sum  was  abstracted  be- 
fore it  reached  her,  the  remainder  refused  to  include  all  that 
it  had  included  then.  Their  small  bank  balance  Anne  refused 
to  count  an  asset.  She  never  mentioned  it  and  was  not  sure 
that  Roger  remembered  they  had  it.  When  he  suggested  some 
extravagance,  a  week-end  trip,  or  absurdly  expensive  theater 
seats,  treats  that  in  the  past  had  been  supposed  to  be  made 
possible  by  this  balance — but  which,  in  the  end,  Anne  had  al- 
ways managed  without  touching — she  now  escaped  on  the 
plea  of  fatigue.  Nevertheless,  when  Roger  stopped  suggesting 
them,  Anne  was  hurt  and  angry. 

Each  week  she  put  aside  something  for  little  Roger's  need. 
And  if  gradually  his  clothes  began  to  be  finer,  his  bassinet  more 
elaborate,  his  weighing  scales  unnecessarily  expensive,  she  did 
not  allow  herself  to  word  the  reason.  Only  when  Roger  donated 
with  extra  liberality  to  some  strike  benefit  or  defense  fund  did 
Anne  deliberately  go  out  and  buy  something  little  Roger  could 
very  well  have  done  without. 

In  their  daily  intercourse  there  was  now  more  of  the  old 
comradeship  than  there  had  been  for  months,  but  often,  her 
light  housework  finished,  Anne  sat  in  a  shady  corner  of  the 
garden,  spicy  and  sweet  again  in  the  hot  spring  sun,  and  won- 
dered whence  had  come  this  feeling  of  silently  and  strongly 
holding  out  against  something  that  was  always  in  the  back- 
ground of  her  mind.  Once  she  had  felt  this  something  to  be  in 
Roger  himself,  a  kind  of  accidental  quality  that  circumstances 
might  or  might  not  develop.  But  now  she  felt  it  as  something 
beyond  Roger,  something  permanent  functioning  through  him. 
Between  herself  and  Roger  there  was  some  essential  difference. 
Their  attitude  toward  the  coming  of  Rogie,  to  Black  Tom 
O'Connell  and  Merle,  to  the  futile  efforts  of  Hilary  Wainwright, 
even  their  union  against  the  duplicity  of  John  Lowell,  had 

127 


128         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

held  this  germ  of  difference.  Hour  after  hour  Anne  pried  into 
her  own  motives  for  action  and  Roger's,  trying  to  find  the 
source  of  this  difference,  but  when,  in  an  entirely  fictitious 
future,  she  sometimes  glimpsed  its  possible  scope,  she  fled  back 
to  the  concrete  present  and  Rogie. 

It  was  always  after  one  of  these  exhausting  exhumations  of 
motive  and  impulse  that  Anne  gripped  more  firmly  the  old 
habit  of  discussion  with  Roger;  that  they  went  to  one  of  the 
many  protest  meetings  which,  now  that  Anne  refused  concerts 
and  theaters,  had  come  to  be  Roger's  chief  interest  outside 
the  direct  round  of  his  work;  or  that  Anne  called  for  Roger 
at  the  loft,  and,  while  she  waited,  tried  to  feel  a  little  of  the 
enthusiasm  mounting  sometimes  almost  to  fever  heat  in  him. 

But  the  force  and  driving  power  that  Roger  felt  as  an  almost 
concrete  thing  never  included  Anne.  She  could  never  lose 
herself  in  it,  nor  be  carried  away  on  its  flood.  It  was  too  loud, 
too  insistent,  too  hot,  like  hissing  black  steam,  screaming 
through  a  narrow  vent. 

It  did  not  frighten,  but  deadened  something  within,  so  that 
Anne,  waiting  quietly  on  the  bench  where  Roger  had  first 
waited  for  Black  Tom,  felt  her  effort  to  believe  in  the  ultimate 
aim  of  all  this  striving  shrink  and  grow  cold  within  her.  To 
hear  the  violent  click  of  Katya's  typewriter  depressed  her.  To 
see  Black  Tom  suddenly  rise,  and,  with  the  same  sweeping  ges- 
ture with  which  he  had  opened  before  her  the  advance  of  strike 
breakers,  throw  clear  to  Roger  some  new  plan,  made  Anne  feel 
that  the  man's  broken  and  unkempt  hands  had  actually  drawn 
her  with  them.  Nor  could  she  ever  look  at  him  without  think- 
ing of  Merle. 

Like  a  brilliant  bird,  Merle  flitted  about  the  dusty  place, 
getting  in  every  one's  way,  interrupting  at  her  own  whim,  in- 
different to  their  amused  tolerance  or  irritation.  Birdlike, 
she  perched  on  the  gate  of  Katya's  den  and  chirped  through 
Katya's  clicking,  or  disturbed  Roger  with  her  flutey  recital 
of  a  movie  she  had  taken  the  afternoon  off  to  enjoy.  Only 
Black  Tom's  absorption  did  she  respect,  but  sometimes,  when 
she  came  and  chattered  to  Anne,  Anne  saw  her  watching  him 
with  a  wistful  longing  that  was  not  in  the  least  birdlike  or  gay. 

Anne  grew  gradually  to  feel  a  protecting  tenderness 
for  Merle,  quite  distinct  from  her  realization  of  the  girl's 
shallow  mind  and  different  moral  standards.  It  had  a  little 
of  the  same  personal  tenderness  she  felt  for  Hilda's  confused 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD        129 

thinking  and  perpetual  gayety.  When  Merle  referred  to  some 
mass  meeting  of  protest  that  had  fired  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
others  to  fever  heat  as  "a  beastly  bore,"  and  Roger  or  Katya 
demanded  to  know  why  she  went,  Anne  felt  that  she  under- 
stood. 

For  neither  could  Anne  enter  the  spirit  of  these  meetings. 
The  hatred  of  the  men  and  women,  massed  to  demand  justice 
for  this  and  that,  swept  on  high  above  Merle's  head,  but  it 
weighted  Anne  and  stuck  to  her  like  an  unclean  substance. 
Hundreds,  sometimes  thousands,  of  bodies  smelling  of  sweat 
and  dust  and  the  day's  toil  in  factory  and  machine  shop, 
nauseated  her  and  stifled  the  purpose  of  their  rebellion.  Alone, 
high  in  the  clean  sweetness  of  her  own  home,  Anne  could  rebel 
against  the  blockade  of  Russia,  the  forced  toil  of  little  children, 
the  throttling  of  free  speech  and  liberty.  But  the  air,  thick 
with  human  breath,  the  shrill  voices  of  boys  and  girls  selling 
revolutionary  pamphlets,  the  mass  weight  of  their  hatred,  woke 
in  her  a  rebellion  against  the  stark  ugliness  of  its  expression 
that  took  all  Anne's  control  not  to  express  by  rising  and 
leaving  the  hall.  When,  inflamed  by  what  she  came  to  feel, 
as  the  weeks  passed,  was  deliberate  manipulation  of  this  human 
capacity  to  hate,  protest  broke  in  that  mounting  cry  of  rage, 
that  long-drawn,  rising  bellow  of  hatred,  that  inhuman  baying 
with  which  they  greeted  the  name  of  some  oppressor,  Anne 
shivered  with  actual  cold.  "B-o-o-o,"  it  rose  and  fell  and  rose 
again  like  an  icy  blast,  freezing  Anne's  capacity  to  share  their 
anger. 

Like  bells,  certain  words  and  names  rang  out  in  signal — war- 
lords, wage  slave,  master  class.  Through  the  months  with 
Hilary  Wainwright  Anne  had  heard  them  often  and  used  them 
herself  glibly.  Now  she  felt  that  she  would  never  again  be 
able  to  utter  them.  As  Hilda  stripped  the  facts  of  birth  and 
love  to  their  biological  skeletons,  so  these  men  and  women 
stripped  the  words  of  their  conventional  acceptance,  their 
usefulness  as  tags  of  common  understanding,  and  released  rag- 
ing genii  to  perform  their  tasks.  After  such  a  meeting  the 
surface  of  her  body  was  covered  with  a  clammy  dampness. 

But  no  torrent  of  unleashed  hatred  chilled  Roger  or  made 
him  cold  and  weak.  Coming,  at  the  end  of  May,  from  the 
largest  meeting  they  had  attended,  Anne  felt  Roger  throbbing 
with  enthusiasm,  even  after  they  had  walked  blocks  under  the 
peaceful  stars. 


130        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Wasn't  Tom  great?"  he  demanded  for  the  third  time,  un- 
conscious that  Anne  had  not  answered.  "When  he  talks  as  he 
did  to-night  he  makes  me  think  of  Christ  driving  the  money 
changers  from  the  temple." 

"The  Bible  would  never  have  remained  literature  if  Christ 
had  ranted  like  that." 

"It  isn't  ranting,  Anne.  He  sees  things  like  that,  literally 
sees  the  workers  slaves,  just  as  bound  and  owned  by  capitalistic 
pressure  as  ever  a  black  African  savage  was  owned  by  a  South- 
ern cotton  planter.  He  sees  the  'masters'  in  their  great  Wall 
Street  offices  just  as  clearly  as  any  master  with  the  legal  right 
to  beat  his  slave."  Roger  tried  to  speak  patiently,  but  some- 
times the  shadings  of  Anne's  sensitiveness  rasped  him  as  much 
as  this  "ranting"  rasped  Anne.  Was  it  really  her  dislike  of 
Black  Tom,  what  she  insisted  on  calling  the  "coarseness  of  his 
moral  fiber,"  that  made  her  blind  to  the  man's  sincerity? 
Could  not,  or  would  not,  Anne  see  above  and  beyond  this 
single  breach  of  the  world's  standard?  Roger  did  not  know. 
And,  like  Anne,  fleeing  before  the  definite  revelation  of  the 
difference  between  herself  and  Roger,  Roger,  too,  hurried 
away. 

There  was  a  pause  and  then  Roger  said: 

"That  was  the  biggest  collection  I've  ever  seen  taken  up  at 
a  meeting.  Carson  certainly  can  get  the  cash." 

Anne  saw,  as  if  he  had  been  there  in  the  night  before  her, 
the  thin,  bowed  shoulders  of  Robert  Carson  butted  out  over  the 
edge  of  the  platform  in  the  final  gesture  he  always  took  before 
defying  the  audience  not  to  "give  and  give  their  all."  His 
lank,  black  hair  fell  in  a  long  side  lock  across  his  high  forehead, 
his  black  eyes  burned  in  his  pale,  thin  face.  She  shivered. 

"It's  terrible  to  use  hate  like  that,  or  pain,  or  any  feeling,  fan 
it  to  that  white  heat  and  then  mint  money  from  it." 

Roger  bit  his  lip.  "It  isn't  hate  or  any  pain.  It's  not  a 
destroying  force.  It's  the  demand  for  universal  justice  and  the 
right  to  Beauty  that  centuries  of  oppression  have  not  been  able 
to  kill.  It's  love,  Anne,  not  hate." 

"Maybe,"  Anne  said  drearily,  with  such  an  unexpected  cessa- 
tion of  personal  interest  that  Roger  turned  to  her  quickly. 

"You're  tired,  Anne.    You  ought  not  to  have  gone." 

His  eyes  were  concerned  for  her,  for  her  personally,  her  body 
and  her  comfort.  Anne  swallowed  the  lump  that  rose  suddenly 
in  her  throat. 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         131 

"I  guess  I  am.  It  was  so  hot  and  noisy  and  they  last  so 
long.  It  must  be  almost  twelve." 

Roger  drew  her  arm  into  his.  "I  ought  not  to  have  let  you 
go." 

"I  don't  think  I  will  any  more — before  Rogie  comes." 

"I  sha'n't  let  you,"  Roger  warned,  and  Anne  smiled  up  at 
him.  Roger  smiled  back:  "You're  nothing  but  a  baby  your- 
self." 

But  he  was  glad  that  Anne  had  decided  not  to  go  to  any 
more  meetings  until  after  the  baby  came.  Perhaps,  then,  he 
and  Anne  would  go  and  understand  together,  as  they  had  under- 
stood that  day  on  the  Bluff  in  the  sweeping  wind;  and  by  the 
lake  in  the  green  and  scarlet  dawn. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

IN  July  the  baby  was  born.  Anne  was  very  ill  and  Hilda 
fluttered  about  looking  reproachfully  at  Roger.  But,  with 
the  least  impatience  of  Roger  toward  her,  she  propitiated  him 
with  assurances  that  many  women  were  worse,  that  Anne  would 
not  die  or  be  a  wreck  for  life;  and  when,  at  the  end  of  two 
weeks,  Anne  took  a  decided  turn  for  the  better  and  the  doctors 
let  him  go  in  for  a  few  moments  to  see  her,  Hilda  acted  as  if 
she  had  personally  managed  this  for  his  peace  of  mind. 

Anne  was  so  small  and  white,  so  exhausted  and  utterly  con- 
tent, and  his  son  was  such  a  mite  of  a  thing;  although  the 
nurse  assured  him  that  little  Roger  was  an  "exceptional"  fine 
and  healthy  boy,  Roger  felt  that  any  life  encased  in  such  a 
tiny  and  strengthless  form  must  be  precarious.  They  were  so 
small  and  helpless,  dependent  so  completely  on  him.  It 
frightened  Roger.  Now  that  his  son  was  there  before  him, 
Roger  was  humble.  His  own  part  in  this  creation  no  longer 
seemed  a  thing  of  choice.  He  had  been  used  by  the  force  of 
Life,  which  refused  to  stop.  It  would  go  on  and  on  and  on, 
through  little  Roger  and  little  Roger's  sons;  on,  in  its  majestic 
stride  indifferent  to  the  means  it  used,  to  him  as  an  individual, 
on  to  the  fulfillment  of  its  own  purpose. 

Roger  went  back  to  the  office  and  was  glad  that  Katya  was 
alone. 

"It's  a  boy,"  he  said  queerly,  "such  a  wee  mite  of  red.  He 
fumbles  with  his  clenched  fists  and  sucks  in  the  air.  He 
doesn't  seem  human." 

She  listened  without  looking  directly  at  Roger  and  did  not 
ask  after  Anne.  Just  then  Merle  came  in  and  Katya  began  to 
work  again. 

But  Merle  announced  that  the  moment  Anne  was  home  she 
was  coming  up  to  see  the  baby.  Roger  laughed: 

"You  wouldn't  know  which  end  to  take  hold  of,  Merle. 
He's  not  bigger  than  a  minute." 

"You  clumsy  brute.  I'll  bet  you're  afraid  to  touch  him 
yourself." 

132 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         133 

"I  am,  just  about." 

Merle  giggled.  "Well,  I'm  not  and  I'm  going  up  to  play 
with  him  next  week." 

"You'll  be  two  of  a  kind,"  Roger  teased,  "only  don't  teach 
him  any  of  your  swear  words.  They're  picturesque — but  re- 
member, he's  a  pure  soul." 

"Don't  worry.  I  wouldn't  teach  him  or  any  other  living 
soul  a  thing.  He'll  get  enough  of  that  before  long,  poor  little 
devil.  This  place  reeks  with  instruction." 

"But  you've  escaped,"  Roger  teased  on;  "the  first  axiom 
of  the  Social  Revolution  never  got  under  your  skin." 

"Oh,  yes  it  did.  Only  it  started  to  fester — and  I  cut  it 
out."  On  that  she  went  whistling,  the  green  tarn  pulled 
coquettishly  to  one  side. 

When  Anne  was  home  again  Merle  kept  her  promise.  At 
first  she  stayed  only  a  few  moments,  but  gradually  the  habit 
formed  for  her  to  drop  in  late  in  the  afternoon,  several  times  a 
week.  As  Anne  grew  stronger  and  began  again  to  get  regular 
meals,  she  often  let  Merle  undress  Rogie  and  make  him  ready 
for  bed.  It  seemed  to  please  the  girl  to  take  off  the  tiny  gar- 
ments and  feel  the  soft,  warm  roundness  of  the  strong  little 
body. 

One  night  in  mid-October,  a  warm  evening  of  glowing  sun- 
set, Anne  came  into  the  bedroom  from  the  kitchen  at  the  sound 
of  Merle's  low  crooning.  Merle's  single  song  was  Tipperary 
and  she  had  mangled  the  martial  notes  to  a  strange  lullaby. 
Anne  laughed  and  Merle  turned  quickly,  Rogie  clasped  tight  as 
if  from  intrusion.  Then  she  laughed,  too,  not  quite  so  gayly 
as  Anne,  and  together  they  put  him  to  bed.  When  he  was 
tucked  in  and  the  window  open,  Merle  followed  Anne  back 
to  the  kitchen. 

"Did  you  really  want  Rogie,  Anne,  or  was  he  an  accident?" 

Anne  flushed  at  the  unwarranted  intimacy.  But  Merle  was 
leaning  against  the  wall,  her  full  throat  rising  so  young  and 
white  from  her  brilliant  smock,  her  eyes  so  serious,  that  Anne 
relented. 

"I  wanted  him,"  she  said  hastily. 

Merle  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  She  seemed  to  be  look- 
ing at  something  in  no  way  connected  with  Anne. 

"I  wonder  if  it  would  have  worked  out  all  right — if  I  had 
gone  ahead.  But  I  haven't  your  grit,  Anne.  And  I  was  bugs 
about  Tom;  oh,  nuts,  simply  nuts.  I  believed  he  was  God 


i34        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

If  he'd  told  me  to  jump  off  the  ferry  boat,  I'd  have  done 
it  without  waiting  to  ask  him  why."  There  was  no  bitterness, 
just  the  bewildered  statement  of  a  fact,  a  fact  that  had  once 
been  true  and  that  Merle  wished  were  true  now. 

It  was  the  first  reference  she  had  ever  made  to  her  relations 
with  Black  Tom  O'Connell.  Anne  wished  she  had  not  said 
anything  but  it  seemed  unkind  to  cut  her  off. 

"Didn't— he— want — one?" 

"Well,  not  so  you  could  notice.  He  has  some  of  his  own, 
you  know,  so  perhaps  that  makes  a  difference.  I  don't  sup- 
pose if  it  had  been  the  third  or  fourth  I'd  have  been  as  excited 
myself  as  I  was.  But  when  I  told  him,  he  said  'Good  God!' 
and  looked  so  solemn  I  was  scared  to  death.  Having  a  baby 
seemed  the  most  terribly  serious  thing  in  the  world ;  and  then  he 
began  to  talk  of  all  the  suffering  and  poverty  in  the  world,  just 
as  if  we  were  responsible  for  it,  until  I  saw  the  poor  little  beggar 
starving  to  death  under  my  nose.  Well,  perhaps  he  might 
have,"  Merle  added  with  a  shrug.  "We  were  sure  in  a  hell  of 
a  mess.  We  were  broke,  as  usual.  The  police  were  watching 
Tom — it  was  the  first  months  of  the  war  when  they  were  lock- 
ing up  everybody — and  I  never  Tr.new  when  Tom  went  out 
whether  he  would  come  back.  I  o  n  that  I  felt  pretty  solemn 
myself  at  times.  The  world  seem;  d  to  have  gone  mad.  It's 
died  out  now,  but  you  remember  tl  at  feeling  as  if  the  bottom 
of  life  might  drop  out  at  any  moment  or  the  heavens  open  and 
sweep  us  all  away?  There  did  seem  to  be  so  many  needless  mil- 
lions in  the  world  already.  And  what  for?  Gunfodder.  So — 
I— had  it  done." 

There  was  no  mistaking  Merle's  meaning.  Anne  put  the 
saucepan  down  on  the  sink  very  slowly  and  stood  with  her 
back  to  Merle.  She  felt  the  girl's  eyes  on  her  rigid  body,  but 
it  was  beyond  her  power  to  move  or  speak. 

"I  suppose  you  wouldn't  have  done  it.  Nobody  could  scare 
you  like  that,  but  I  must  say  that  Tom  didn't  force  me.  He 
didn't  even  suggest  it.  He  just  frightened  me  to  death  with  the 
responsibility  and  left  the  decision  to  me.  But  he  never  said 
afterwards  that  he  wished  I  hadn't,  although — I  got  to  feel 
that  way  myself.  I  got  to  thinking  about  it,  seeing  it — and 
although  I  knew  it  wasn't  really  alive,  it  kind  of  grew,  in  the 
night  specially  when  I  was  waiting  for  Tom  and  didn't  know 
whether  he  had  been  arrested  or  not — staring  at  me  with  those 
big,  bulging  eyes.  You  know — kind  of  seeing  nothing  and  yet 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         135 

knowing  all  the  time  what  I  had  done  to  it.    I  got  woozy " 

"Stop."  Anne  dragged  herself  round  and,  gripping  the  sink 
board,  stared,  white  and  sick,  at  Merle.  Merle  flushed. 

"Oh,  come  off,  Anne;  you  needn't  look  like  that.  Thou- 
sands of  women  do  it;  a  million  a  year,  here  in  the  United 
States  alone,  and  you  know  it.  Because  they're  too  lazy  to 
have  them,  or  want  to  gad,  scores  are  doing  it  all  the  time. 

Everybody  knows  it.  Besides,  it's  not  nearly  so  bad  to " 

Merle  hesitated,  and  then  at  the  loathing  in  Anne's  eyes,  threw 
the  words  at  her,  "to  abort  it  before  it's  really  alive  at  all,  as 
it  is  to  let  it  come  and  then  see  it  starve  or  go  to  the 
devil." 

"Please  don't  say  any  more  about  it,  Merle.  I  can't  stand 
it." 

Just  then  Roger  turned  the  key  in  the  latch. 

"I'm — not  blaming  you,  Merle,  but  it — makes  me  sick  all 
over." 

Quick  to  forgive,  Merle  came  and  put  her  arm  across  Anne's 
shoulder  and  Anne  succeeded  in  not  shuddering.  "You're  just 
like  a  little  silver  fairy,  Anne.  And  I  bet  you  spoil  Rogie  like 
the  devil." 

"But  you  forget  this  stern  parent,"  Roger  laughed  from  the 
doorway.  "I'll  discipline  him;  he's  going  to  be  the  finest  young 
revolutionist  you  ever  saw." 

Merle  grinned:  "Aren't  you  and  Tom  and  Katya  going  to 
get  the  poor  old  world  straightened  out  before  that?" 

"You're  a  scoffer."  Roger  came  to  Anne  and  kissed  her,  but 
she  wanted  to  take  little  Rogie  and  run  far  from  every  one; 
far  from  those  terrible,  bulging  eyes;  those  blind,  embryonic 
eyes,  resentful,  unseeing,  so  eternally  wise. 

She  served  the  dinner,  but  ate  little,  and  was  grateful  when 
Merle  went.  Until  she  had  gone  Anne  did  not  feel  that  she 
could  go  near  Rogie.  But  the  moment  after  she  had  left,  Anne 
went  softly  into  the  bedroom.  Kneeling  by  the  baby's  crib, 
she  looked  so  long  that  he  seemed  to  feel  it  and  frowned  and 
moved  in  his  sleep.  He  was  there,  safe,  alive  and  hers.  But 
Anne  felt  all  the  babies  in  the  world,  the  babies  thwarted  of  life, 
staring  at  her  in  the  warm  blackness  of  the  night. 

She  had  wanted  him  and  he  was  there,  but  she  felt  as  if, 
somehow,  he  had  missed  a  great  danger.  As  if  he  had  won  to 
life  by  a  chance. 

Had  Roger  really  wanted  him? 


136        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

Anne  rose  quickly.  Again  she  saw  the  look  of  stupefaction 
in  Roger's  eyes.  Heard  his  "Good  Lord!" 

Anne  went  slowly  out  of  the  room.  Roger  was  reading  under 
the  shaded  light.  He  was  very  strong,  very  sure  of  himself, 
sure  that  he  was  right.  She  stood  looking  at  him  speculatively. 
For  the  first  time  since  her  marriage  Anne  thought  of  Roger  as 
the  man  she  had  married. 

Feeling  her  eyes  on  him,  Roger  glanced  up. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Did  you  ever  wish — before — after  I  told  you  that  Rogie 
was  coming — that — that — I — that  some  way ?" 

"What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about,"  Roger  asked  after  a 
pause  in  which  he  waited  bewildered  for  Anne  to  finish. 

Anne  moistened  her  lips.  "Did  you  ever  feel — like — sug- 
gesting— that — I ?  " 

She  could  not  say  it.  Roger  frowned  and  then  understanding 
came  to  him. 

"What  are  you  trying  to  say,  Anne?  Do  you  mean  did  I  ever 
wish  that  you  wouldn't  go  on  with  it?" 

Anne  nodded. 

Roger  rose  and  put  both  hands  on  her  shoulders. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Anne?  No,  of  course  I 
didn't." 

"Not — once,  not  even  once — the  least  wish " 

"No,"  Roger  said  quietly".    "I  never  thought  of  it  once." 

"Are  you  glad  now,  really  glad  we  have  him?" 

"I  certainly  am,  Anne;  what  on  earth  is  the  matter  with 
you?" 

Anne  began  to  cry.  "Merle  told  me — Tom — oh,  Roger,  it 
makes  me  sick  all  over.  I — I  loathe  that  man.  How  can  he 
care  about  the  world  and — and — be  like — he  is?" 

Roger's  hands  dropped  from  Anne's  shoulders.  "Let's  not 
discuss  Tom,  Princess;  we  never  agree." 

Anne  flared.  "You  don't  think  it's  wicked  or  disgusting, 
you  don't  really — you  wouldn't  have — minded." 

"Stop  it,  Anne,  please.  You're  being  awfully  unjust  and 
you  know  it.  He  was  poor,  broke,  hunted,  everything  was 
chaos.  The  cases  aren't  the  same  at  all.  Besides,  Merle  isn't 
fit  to  be  a  mother." 

"She's  fit  to  be  a  mistress." 

Roger  turned  to  the  couch  again  and  picked  up  his  book. 

Anne  stood  where  she  was,  tense,  her  lips  drawn. 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         137 

"So  you  knew  it?  Perhaps  he  boasts  of  it — as  one  of  his 
'sacrifices  for  the  Revolution.'  When  did  he  tell  you?" 

"He  didn't  tell  me,"  Roger  answered  patiently.  "Katya  did, 
one  day  when  we  were  talking  about  Merle." 

Anne's  small  frame  tightened.  "Well!  Of  all  things  to 
discuss  with  another  woman!" 

"Oh,  hell,"  Roger  exploded,  "come  off  that  pedestal,  Anne. 
It's  ridiculous." 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

FOR  a  week  the  tension  between  Roger  and  Anne  lasted,  pull- 
ing a  little  weaker  each  day  under  the  pressure  of  prox- 
imity, little  Rogie,  and  the  habit  of  agreement.  Anne  did  not 
mention  Merle  again  and  tried  not  to  think  of  the  staring, 
embryonic  eyes  of  what  might  have  been  Merle's  child.  She 
knew  such  thought  was  morbid  and  unhealthy.  As  Merle  had 
said,  one  million  women  a  year,  in  the  United  States  alone, 
recognized  this  as  their  right  of  escape.  To  Belle  it  was  per- 
haps a  very  ordinary  occurrence.  Anne  herself  would  have 
hesitated  to  call  it  "wicked."  She  called  it  "horrible"  instead. 
But  she  was  glad  when  Merle  stopped  coming  and  never  asked 
about  her. 

Autumn  passed  and  the  holiday  season  came  with  early 
rain.  Hilda  spoke  tentatively  of  another  Christmas  dinner, 
although  Belle  was  in  Europe  now  with  a  rich  patient.  But 
Anne  evaded  these  suggestions  and  did  not  even  mention 
them  to  Roger. 

On  Christmas  Eve  Anne  bought  a  tiny  tree  and  decorated  it, 
but  Rogie  was  fretful  and  squirmed  away  from  it,  crying;  so 
that  Anne  put  out  the  candles  and  did  not  light  them  again. 

On  Christmas  morning  she  and  Roger  exchanged  their  pres- 
ents and  immediately  after  the  late  breakfast  Roger  began 
work  on  a  complicated  case  that  was  to  come  up  right  after 
the  New  Year. 

Just  before  noon  it  began  to  rain  again,  a  thin,  icy  drizzle 
that  soaked  all  the  cheer  and  hope  from  life.  Anne  tried  to 
read  or  sew,  but  the  thin,  cold,  inexhaustible  rain  washed  away 
all  interest.  She  could  not  even  make  up  her  mind  to  go  to 
Hilda,  although  it  was  Christmas  day  and  she  had  not  been 
for  a  week.  No  decision  could  crystallize  in  that  icy  drip,  never 
condensing  to  a  real  downpour,  never  ceasing,  trickling  into 
one's  courage  until  it  washed  away  desire. 

They  had  planned  to  go  to  a  theater  in  the  evening,  but  a 
little  after  five  the  woman  whom  Anne  had  hired  to  stay 
with  Rogie  phoned  that  she  could  not  come,  and  the  tickets 

138 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         139 

were  cancelled.  Roger  had  worked  all  afternoon  in  order  to 
have  the  evening  free,  and  now  that  the  evening  was  to  be  his 
he  decided  to  take  a  nap.  He  slept  until  Anne  waked  him  for 
dinner  at  half  past  six. 

After  dinner  he  helped  Anne  with  the  dishes  and  they  smoked 
an  extra  cigarette  in  honor  of  the  day.  But  he  was  so  plainly 
anxious  to  get  back  to  the  work  he  had  not  quite  finished 
that  at  last  Anne's  taut  nerves  could  no  longer  stand  his  gen- 
erosity and  she  urged  him  to  finish. 

"Otherwise  you'll  want  to  sit  up  all  night,  and  you've  been 
up  late  for  days." 

"I  would  like  to  get  it  through  to-night,"  he  conceded.  "But 
what  will  you  do?  I'm  afraid  I've  been  pretty  absorbed  all 
day." 

"That's  all  right.  I  may  go  'round  to  mom's  for  a  little.  I 
haven't  even  phoned  and  I  sent  the  presents  by  post." 

"Has  it  stopped  raining?" 

"I  don't  know.  It  doesn't  matter."  Anne  went  to  the 
door  and  the  sweet  dampness  of  the  garden  flooded  the  warm 
room.  "Yes,  it's  stopped;  thickened  to  a  heavy  mist.  I  won't 
be  long." 

"Then  I'll  try  and  finish  by  the  time  you  get  back." 

Almost  before  the  door  closed  Roger  was  at  the  typewriter. 
As  Anne  went  down  the  stairs  she  Heard  it  click,  click,  as  fast 
as  Katya's. 

She  found  Hilda  and  James  alone,  Hilda  crocheting  and 
James  reading  in  the  silence  that  always  lay  over  their  eve- 
nings. For  a  few  moments  her  entrance  shattered  it,  and 
they  came  together  in  interest  of  her  news,  the  health  of  Rogie, 
the  presents  Anne  had  sent.  Then  James  went  back  to  his 
paper  and  Hilda  rummaged  in  her  disordered  work-basket  for 
Belle's  last  letter. 

Would  she  and  Roger  some  day  meet  like  this  for  a 
moment  on  the  coming  of  Rogie,  a  grown  man? 

Anne  scarcely  heard  the  letter  Hilda  had  found,  not  in  the 
work-basket  at  all,  but  in  the  pocket  of  her  kitchen  apron.  It 
was  only  the  postscript  that  drew  Anne's  attention  in  time  to 
comment  intelligently: 

"We're  leaving  Marseilles  to-morrow,"  Belle  wrote,  "and 
may  go  on  to  the  Far  East." 

"Now,  if  that  isn't  just  like  Belle's  luck,"  Hilda  smiled  and 
folded  the  letter,  "Traipsing  'round  like  a  millionaire  with 


140        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

nothing  to  do.  The  lady  has  her  own  maid,  and  Belle  only  has 
to  see  that  she  takes  her  drops  and  things  and  doesn't  get  too 
tired.  I'll  bet  Belle  has  a  high  old  time." 

Hilda  looked  like  an  excited  child,  prematurely  gray-headed, 
as  she  nodded  her  assurance  of  Belle's  ability  to  have  a  good 
time  in  any  circumstance. 

"I  don't  doubt  that,  but,  personally,  I  can't  imagine  anything 
worse  than  trotting  about  with  an  invalid,  looking  after  her 
pills  and  sandwiching  all  the  lovely  things  in  Europe  into  the 
spaces  between  her  patient's  rests." 

Hilda  laughed.  "If  I  know  Belle,  by  this  time  she's  got  that 
maid  trained." 

"She's  tried,  anyhow,"  Anne  agreed,  and  they  smiled  together 
in  appreciation  of  Belle's  "efficiency." 

Just  as  Anne  was  leaving  Charlotte  Welles  came  in,  and 
Anne  stayed  on  a  few  moments.  Charlotte  Welles  was  a  slight 
woman  with  great  dark  eyes  under  cloudy  brown  hair,  a  pale 
skin,  and  pale,  sweet  lips.  She  had  a  soft  voice,  but  her  man- 
ner annoyed  Anne.  Her  gentleness  was  so  insistent,  and  al- 
though she  never  mentioned  her  belief  in  Christian  Science, 
Anne  was  sure  she  never  forgot  it  for  a  moment.  She  seemed 
always  to  measure  one's  remarks  up  against  eternity,  to  dis- 
count any  opposition  as  the  meanderings  of  a  clouded  mind;  to 
be  quite  sure  that,  in  time,  one  would  see  Truth.  To-night  she 
was  particularly  annoying,  although  as  Anne  walked  home  she 
could  not  repeat  a  single  annoying  thing  Mrs.  Welles  had  said. 

"She  affects  me  as  the  sight  of  a  limousine  or  a  fur-lined  over- 
coat affects  the  man  with  a  dinner  pail  trudging  in  the  street, 
I  suppose.  She's  a  kind  of  spiritual  'capitalist'  with  an  unfair 
advantage  over  the  rest  of  the  world.  Because  she  started  with 
an  illogical  mind  she's  been  able  to  accumulate  this  'peace,' 
and  never  earned  it  through  a  real  trouble  in  her  life.  I  can't 
imagine  what  she  and  moms  have  in  common,  but  she  seems 
to  be  always  dropping  in.  Perhaps  she  hopes  to  convert 
mamma  to  Science."  But  at  the  picture  of  Hilda  converted  to 
Science  and  moving  thereafter  in  calm  assurance  through  the 
perversities  of  James  Mitchell,  Anne  laughed  aloud.  "Dear 
old  moms,  she'd  never  keep  her  mind  on  one  thing  long  enough 
to  demonstrate  it  into  existence,  even  if  she  could  decide  what 
it  was  she  wanted  most." 

But  the  calm  face  of  Charlotte  Welles  continued  beside  Anne 
until  she  reached  her  own  door.  After  all,  the  "capitalist"  did 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         141 

enjoy  his  viciously  accumulated  millions,  and  Charlotte  Welles' 
peace  was  real  to  herself. 

The  typewriter  was  covered  now,  and  Roger  was  reading  be- 
fore the  fire.  As  Anne  came  in  he  laid  his  book  aside  and  looked 
up. 

"Well,  what's  the  news?" 

"Nothing  special.  Belle's  going  on  from  France  to  the  Far 
East.  She  seems  to  be  having  a  wonderful  time." 

"Trust  Belle." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Belle  works  hard  for  her  money.  You 
wouldn't  like  to  trot  a  nervous  millionaire  around  the  world, 
would  you?" 

"Not  on  your  life."  Roger  was  about  to  add  that  neither 
would  he  like,  if  he  were  a  nervous  millionaire,  being  trotted 
about  the  world  by  Belle.  But  he  never,  if  he  could  avoid  it, 
referred  in  any  way  to  the  Mitchells.  He  always  asked  after 
them  when  Anne  had  been  there,  but  he  never  went  himself. 
He  felt  at  times  that  Anne  understood  his  feeling,  and  he 
wished  he  could  have  been  more  honest  with  her  about  it.  But 
at  the  first  hint  of  criticism  Anne  flared  to  their  defense;  and 
often,  when  the  Mitchells  themselves  had  been  far  from  his  in- 
tention, Anne  had  interpreted  his  scorn  of  intellectual  narrow- 
ness as  direct  criticism  of  her  people. 

The  subject  of  Belle  dropped,  but  Roger  did  not  take  his 
book  again.  He  felt  Anne  beside  him,  aloof  in  some  interest 
acquired  at  the  Mitchell  flat,  something  she  would  guard  from 
him  if  he  tried  to  share  it.  Roger  felt  a  little  sentimental  and 
lonely,  too,  as  he  searched  about  among  the  topics  of  common 
interest  for  a  meeting  ground  with  Anne.  But  this  meeting 
ground  had  grown  narrower  and  narrower  and  what  remained 
had  dangerous  spots,  slippery  places  from  which  they  were 
sure  to  slide  from  generalities  to  personal  recrimination — if 
Anne  let  it  get  that  far.  Usually,  just  as  they  were  about  to 
plunge  into  an  anger  that  Roger  often  felt  would  clear  the 
atmosphere,  Anne  would  retreat  behind  the  patient  calm  that 
closed  him  from  her  as  effectually  as  a  barred  door. 

The  silence  grew  until  Roger  felt  that  he  must  break  it  at 
any  price,  when  unexpectedly  Anne  sighed.  She  had  been 
wandering  through  the  lovely  places  of  Europe. 

"Tired?" 

"No,  not  very.  But  this  rain  is  getting  on  my  nerves  I  think. 
I  can't  get  out  much  with  Rogie,  and  I  feel  all  cooped  up." 


142 

"Couldn't  we  make  some  arrangement?  Couldn't  you  get 
Mrs.  Horton  to  come  round  for  so  many  hours  a  day?  That 
would  leave  you  free.  It's  not  right  to  drop  all  your  interests, 
even  for  His  Highness." 

His  voice  was  so  concerned,  his  eyes  so  gentle  that  Anne 
forced  back  the  statement  that  His  Highness  was  now  the  only 
real  interest  she  had. 

"I  suppose  we  could.  But  I  really  don't  know  what  I  would 
do.  I  thought  the  other  day  of  taking  some  extension  lectures 
again,  afternoon  ones.  I  got  the  prospectus  for  French  litera- 
ture and  history — but  I  don't  know.  It  seems  finicky  and 
dilettantish  somehow." 

French  literature,  when  Roger  was  always  talking  about 
the  drama  and  tragedy  of  life  about  them!  History,  when 
the  people  round  her  were  engaged  in  making  it! 

For  a  moment  Roger  thought  of  suggesting  that  Anne 
come  for  a  few  hours  a  day  and  help  out  in  the  loft.  They 
were  deluged  in  work.  Merle  was  getting  more  and  more  care- 
less. Some  days  she  never  appeared  at  all.  She  had  been 
away  a  week  now,  no  one  knew  where,  unless  it  was  Tom,  and 
he  had  offered  no  explanation.  Katya  had  done  Merle's  work 
in  addition  to  her  own,  but  even  Katya  was  not  so  good  a 
stenographer  as  Anne.  While  he  turned  the  suggestion  about, 
making  sure  it  hid  no  pitfall  of  antagonism,  Anne  went  on: 

"I  guess  that  the  real  reason  is  I'm  too  lazy." 

"You're  certainly  not  that.  You  keep  Rogie  like  a  prince 
and  this  house  is  a  regular  jewel-box." 

And  yet,  less  than  two  years  ago,  he  had  planned  to  do  high 
things  with  Anne.  One  planned,  and  something,  faint  as 
breath,  impalpable  as  a  mist,  crept  in,  and  one  did  not  do  those 
things.  The  burned  log  fell  apart.  The  rain  beat  again  on 
the  roof  as  if  striving  to  reach  within.  In  the  rising  wind  the 
acacia  lashed  at  them.  Anne  came  from  her  thoughts  with  a 
little  shrug. 

"Perhaps  I  will.  I  don't  know.  In  the  meantime,  let's  go 
to  bed.  The  jewel-box  has  to  be  thoroughly  overhauled  this 
week  and  I  want  to  get  up  early  to-morrow." 

In  the  darkness  they  listened  for  a  while  to  the  rain.  Then 
gradually  Roger  ceased  to  hear  it.  His  breath  came  in  long, 
steady  sighs,  even  and  assured.  Anne  rose  quietly  on  her 
elbow  until  she  could  see  his  face  faintly  in  the  blackness.  He 
looked  very  young  in  his  sleep  and  remarkably  like  Rogie. 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

IT  was  a  windy  March  afternoon  when  Anne,  having  se- 
cured the  services  of  Mrs.  Horton's  oldest  daughter  to 
look   after    Rogie  while   she   did   some  necessary   shopping, 
came  face  to  face  with  Merle,  a  Merle  she  scarcely  knew. 

"Going  right  straight  by  me,"  Merle  began  gayly,  but  at 
Anne's  astonishment  Merle  quieted  to  sincerity.  "I  don't 
blame  you.  I  scarcely  know  myself,"  she  went  on  with  a 
whimsical  gesture  that  included  her  own  person,  from  ex- 
pensive hat  and  furs  to  dainty  shoes.  "I  say,  Anne,  come 
and  have  tea.  If  I  don't  talk  to  some  one,  I'll  bust." 

But  even  after  she  had  given  the  order  for  an  elaborate  tea 
at  the  exclusive  shop  where  she  was  evidently  known,  Merle 
did  not  begin.  She  asked  after  Rogie  and  chattered  of  every- 
thing she  could  think  of,  until  Anne  said  finally: 

"I've  only  got  a  few  minutes,  Merle.  Betty  Horton  can't 
stay  with  Rogie  after  four.  She  has  to  be  home  when  the 
other  children  come  from  school." 

And  then,  almost  without  a  break  or  change  of  tone,  Merle 
said: 

"I've  been  thinking  a  lot  about  you,  Anne.  I  came  near 
'phoning  you  twice.  I've  left  Tom." 

"Left  Tom!" 

Merle  nodded.  "Anne,  do  you  know  how  Tom  took  it? 
Did  Roger  say  anything?  I  haven't  seen  a  soul  of  them  for 
three  weeks." 

"No.  I  don't  believe  Roger  knows  it.  He  would  have  said 
something." 

Merle  shrugged.  "Perhaps  he  doesn't.  Perhaps  Tom  hasn't 
noticed  it  himself." 

Her  eyes  misted,  but  she  tossed  her  head  with  a  cynical 
smile.  "Oh,  well,  it  doesn't  matter.  I  wouldn't  want  him  to 
go  lallygaggin  about  it  to  others — even  if  he  did  any  lally- 
gaggin  to  himself." 

Anne  flushed.  Merle  and  Tom  together  had  seemed  so  ugly, 
but  Merle  like  this  was  even  worse. 

143 


144        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

"What  happened?" 

"Nothing,"  Merle  said  in  fierce  whisper,  "nothing  and  every- 
thing. Anne,  I  couldn't  stand  it  another  minute.  I  tried,  for 
the  sake  of  the  past  and  everything,  but  I  couldn't."  She  was 
like  a  child  begging  forgiveness  and  Anne  softened. 

"Do  you  really  want  to  talk  about  it,  Merle?" 

"Yes.  It  won't  do  any  good,  but  I  always  did  love  to  talk. 
I'm  a  good  revolutionist,  as  far  as  that  goes.  I  can  babble 
and  babble  with  the  best  of  them  till  the  cows  come  home. 
But  where  we  part  is  that  I  do  something  in  the  end.  Oh, 
I  know  they  all  think  I'm  Merle,  the  bobbed-haired  fool,  but 
I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  to  sit  tight  and  let  Life  run  by,  the 
one  and  only  Life  we'll  ever  get,  and  make  no  stab  at  any- 
thing in  it.  Anne,  I'm  so  sick  and  tired  of  the  Brotherhood 
of  Man  and  the  wicked  capitalist  and  the  abused  proletariat, 
I  could  eat  my  hat.  I  can't  live  up  on  those  holy  heights 
and  I  don't  want  to.  I  always  belonged  down  in  the  dust, 
gold  dust  if  I  could  get  it.  And  now — I'm  there." 

Anne  waited  in  silence,  and  after  a  moment  Merle  went 
on: 

"Of  course,  Katya  and  the  rest  will  just  believe  I  was 
tempted — if  they  think  at  all,  but  I  wasn't.  I  worked  it 
all  out.  I  even  made  a  kind  of  trial  balance — what  would 
happen  if  I  stayed,  on  one  side  of  the  sheet — what  would  hap- 
pen if  I  went,  on  the  other.  And  I  went.  I'm  going  to  keep 
that  paper  and  some  day  I'm  going  to  compare  the  results. 
Anyhow,  I'm  gone;  Merle,  the  bobbed-haired  fool,  is  no 
more.  Behold  Mrs.  Benjamin  Wilson,  at  least  on  hotel  regis- 
ters, and  in  private  life — if  I  choose." 

Anne  did  not  move.  She  did  not  even  turn  her  eyes  from 
the  angry  violet  eyes  opposite. 

"I'll  do  a  little  'crushing  under  the  heel  of  capitalism'  myself, 
before  my  heel  gets  too  old  and  shriveled  and  ugly  to  be  hired 
for  the  job."  The  bitterness  of  Merle's  voice  cut. 

"Don't,  Merle.  I  mean  don't  talk  like  that,  please.  If— 
if  you  have  left  Tom  because  you  want  to — don't — don't  make 
it  any  worse." 

"But,  Anne,  it's  true,"  Merle  spoke  more  quietly  now,  and 
quickly,  as  if  the  things  she  had  to  say  must  be  said  instantly, 
once  for  all.  "I  do  want  money,  because  money  is  the  only 
way  to  get  the  things  I  want,  to  get  my  kind  of  Beauty.  To 
Tom  it  may  be  beauty  to  be  always  dodging  jail,  to  live  in  the 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         145 

kind  of  rooms  we  have  lived  in,  to  yell  himself  hoarse  four 
nights  a  week  about  Russia  or  India  or  longshoremen,  anything 
that's  far  enough  from  him.  But  it's  not  to  me.  When  there's 
a  play  in  town  I  want  to  see  it,  and  I  want  decent  clothes  to  go 
in  and  a  fairly  decent  seat,  and  I'm  not  waiting  for  any  old 
'adjustment'  to  give  it  to  me.  I'm  going  to  take  it  while  it's 
going.  Why,  Anne,  when  I  first  went  to  Tom,  I  used  to  wake 
in  the  night,  afraid  the  'Revolution'  would  hit  us  before  morn- 
ing, and  that's  five  years  ago  and  we're  still  dashing  after  its 
tail.  Katya,  poor  old  thing,  has  been  kicking  at  the  world 
for  fifteen  years,  until  she  couldn't  stop  if  she  tried.  And 
when  they  get  it  all  done,  how  do  I  know  it'll  be  any  better? 
People  will  only  be  kicking  about  something  else  then.  No, 
I'll  take  my  million  dollars  now  and  hang  on  to  it." 

"But  you  loved  Tom.    You  can't " 

"Y-e-s — I  loved  him.  And  what  did  I  get  for  it?  Not  in 
money.  I — I'm  not  that  bad,  Anne,  but  Tom  doesn't  know 
half  the  time  whether  I'm  alive  or  not." 

"That  can't  be  true,  Merle.    He's  always  busy " 

"Oh,  shucks,  Anne,  you  can't  tell  me  anything  about  Tom. 
I  know  he's  busy.  Doing  what?  Saving  the  world;  wearing 
himself  to  skin  and  bones  for  millions  of  people  he  has  never 
seen.  But  if  all  these  'oppressed'  were  there  in  one  single  soul 
he  had  to  see  and  touch  and  be  with  all  the  time  and  do  little 
loving  things  for,  he'd  hate  them.  Bah!  they  make  me  sick. 
They're  all  the  same.  They're  monomaniacs.  It's  the  fighting 
they  like.  If  they  had  it  all  fixed  to-night  they'd  mess  it  up 
again  just  for  fun,  or  go  insane  because  they  had  nothing  to  do. 
I  know.  I've  been  through  it.  You're  only  just  beginning.  < 
Wait  and  see.  Roger's  the  same  stuff,  floating  'round  in  the 
clouds  with  those  blue  eyes  and  that  square  chin.  It'll  get 
him  too,  Anne,  if  you  don't  watch  out." 

Anne's  lips  set  tightly.  "You're  hurt  and  mad,  Merle. 
You " 

Merle  laughed.  "All  right,  call  it  that.  It's  been  a  long 
time  coming,  but  it's  come  to  stay.  I'm  going  to  Europe, 
Anne." 

"When?" 

"Just  as  soon  as  Mr.  Wilson  can  arrange  his  business.  I 
went  once  with  Tom — steerage,  before  the  war.  Good  Lord! 
I'm  going  to  have  a  stateroom,  Anne,  and  I'm  going  to  tip, 
God,  how  I  am  going  to  tip.  Pay  human  beings,  'lackeys,'  'wage 


146        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

slaves,'  to  do  the  most  menial  things  I  can  think  of.    I  hope 
I'm  seasick  all  the  time  just  to — 

Merle  broke  off  and  her  eyes  invited  some  one  who  had  just 
entered  the  door.  The  next  moment  a  heavy  young  man  whose 
well-cut  clothes  and  expensive  tie  could  not  refine  the  over- 
fed body,  came  forward. 

"Anne,  let  me  present  Mr.  Wilson.  Ben,  this  is  Anne  you've 
heard  me  speak  about,  Mrs.  Roger  Barton." 

His  bold,  brown  eyes  summed  up  Anne's  fair  delicacy,  and  he 
smiled  approval  of  Merle's  friend.  But  Anne  felt  that  as  long 
as  Merle  wanted  him  he  would  find  no  real  interest  in  any 
other  woman.  He  was  shrewd  and  would  know  when  Merle 
worked  him,  but  it  would  please  him  to  be  so  worked  at  his 
own  pleasure.  Merle's  childish  curls  and  violet  eyes  arid 
scarlet  mouth  saying  bitter,  worldly  things,  had  caught  his 
jaded  interest  and  filliped  it  to  stinging  passion,  so  far  above 
the  torn  and  frayed  sample  he  had  bought  at  extravagant 
prices,  that  the  man  was  humble  and  grateful.  Perhaps  he, 
too,  in  his  own  way,  was  searching  for  Beauty.  Besides,  it 
gave  him  a  pleasant  sense  of  the  security  of  the  world  he 
helped  to  make  to  have  taken  Merle  from  Black  Tom  O'Con- 
nell.  In  some  way  it  justified  the  existence  of  things  as  they 
were,  proved  the  tottering  foundations  of  the  movements  that 
had  begun  to  give  him  a  good  deal  of  trouble  with  his  labor. 

He  was  so  plainly  in  love  with  Merle,  it  surprised  Anne  that 
his  look  was  no  grosser  than  it  was,  for  it  was  evidently  difficult 
for  him  to  sit  near  and  touch  her  in  no  way.  If  Merle  were* 
conscious  of  his  restraint  she  did  not  show  it,  but  after  a  few 
moments  it  got  on  Anne's  nerves,  and  she  rose.  Merle  rose  too, 
insisting  that  Mr.  Wilson  stay  where  he  was  and  finish  the  tea 
the  waitress  had  just  brought. 

"I'll  be  back.  I'm  just  going  to  the  door  with  Anne.  You 
Wait  here,  honey." 

Merle  hurried  after  Anne. 

"When's  Tom  coming  back,  do  you  know?"  she  whispered. 
"I  saw  in  the  papers  he  is  out  of  town." 

"Yes.    No,  I  don't  know;  in  a  few  days  I  think." 

Merle's  small,  white  teeth  marked  the  crimson  lip  in  a  faint 
line.  Slowly  her  black  brows  drew  down  in  a  frown.  Her 
hands  clenched. 

"Anne,  I  would  have  died  for  him — I  really  would  have 
once." 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         147 

"Merle,  don't  go  on  with  this.  You're  doing  it  in  a  fit  of 
anger.  You'll  be  sorry." 

"I'm  not  doing  it  in  a  fit  of  anger.  Didn't  I  tell  you  I 
thought  it  out,  wrote  it  out?  And  do  you  know  what  was 
the  last  item  on  the  balance  sheet  for  Ben?  Well,  if  I  stay 
and  marry  him,  it's  a  baby,  a  warm,  cuddly  thing  like 
Rogie.  And  I'm  going  to  dress  him  in  the  loveliest  clothes, 
and  nobody  will  kick  about  the  starving  Russians  or  the  dying 
Roumanians.  I'll  feed  him  out  of  a  gold-monogrammed  nurs- 
ing bottle  if  I  take  the  fancy,  and  Ben  will  think  it's  grand." 

At  the  exaggerated  picture  Anne  smiled.  Merle  smiled,  too, 
and  then  her  eyes  darkened  again,  just  for  a  moment,  as  if  a 
shadow  had  crossed  them. 

"Anne,  you  might  let  me  know  if  Tom  puts  over  that  case 
he's  gone  on.  I  used  to  listen  to  it  till  I  most  went  frantic, 
but  it's — well,  the  last  thing  I'll  ever  hear  of  the  crowd  and 
I'll  feel  more  finished,  neat  and  tidy-like,  to  know.  I'll  be 
here  another  two  weeks,  anyhow." 

"All  right.    I'll  let  you  know." 

But  Anne  did  not  keep  her  promise,  because  two  days  later 
she  saw  in  the  society  news  that  Mr.  Benjamin  Wilson  was 
leaving  unexpectedly  for  Europe.  The  next  day  Black  Tom 
came  back.  He  had  lost  his  case. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

THE  days  passed.  Roger  did  not  mention  Merle.  He 
was  often  at  the  office  now  in  the  evening  and  Anne  knew 
he  and  Tom  were  working  harder  than  ever.  Some  Hindoo 
revolutionists  had  been  arrested  and  an  almost  hopeless  fight  to 
free  them  was  under  way.  Picturesque  men  with  sad,  dark  eyes 
came  to  the  cottage  to  talk  to  Roger,  and  Roger  made  quick 
trips  to  adjoining  towns  to  see  strange  men  in  secret  places. 

One  day,  about  a  month  after  Anne  had  met  Merle,  Roger 
came  home  earlier  than  he  had  come  for  some  time,  and  very 
gay.  He  had  succeeded  in  getting  an  appeal  for  the  Hindoo 
revolutionists  and  that  was  more  than  any  one  had  expected. 

"Tom's  like  a  small  boy.    I  never  saw  him  so  excited." 

"And  Merle,  I  suppose,  is  flitting  all  over  the  place,  trying 
to  talk  Hindustani?" 

"No.  Merle  isn't  'round  these  days.  I  haven't  seen  her 
for  weeks.  She's  been  dodging  work  for  some  time,  coming  and 
going  when  she  liked.  Come  to  think  of  it,  I  don't  believe  she's 
been  there  at  all  for  ages.  Katya  was  saying  something  about 
getting  another  stenographer.  Merle's  bad  enough,  but  she 
was  better  than  nothing." 

"Katya'd  better  go  ahead  and  get  one  then,  because  Merle 
won't  come  back.  She's  gone  away  with  another  man." 

The  amazement  in  Roger's  eyes  struck  at  Anne's  control. 
Merle  was  right.  She  had  flitted  among  them  and  flitted  away. 
Concerned  with  the  affairs  of  distant  India,  Roger  did  not 
even  know  it.  And  he  had  liked  Merle  with  her  gay  slang,  her 
flippant  comment. 

"Do  you  suppose  that  Tom  O'Connell  has  happened  to  notice 
she's  gone?  Perhaps  you'd  better  not  tell  him.  He  may  never 
find  it  out  at  all." 

"So — that — was  it,"  Roger  said  slowly,  putting  together  the 
pieces  of  a  puzzle  that  had  caught  his  attention  the  day  after 
Tom's  return  from  the  South.  "Poor  Tom — poor  old  Tom. 
But  it  had  to  come.  Merle  had  gone  as  far  as  she  could — 
and  Tom  couldn't  stay  behind." 

148 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         149 

"Certainly  not,"  Anne  said  quietly,  "an  Indian  woman  in 
Burmah  might  have  died." 

"What?    What  about  an  Indian  woman?" 

But  Anne  did  not  answer.  She  was  afraid  she  might  cry, 
and  after  a  brief  pause  Roger  went  back  to  the  thing  that  had 
puzzled  him. 

"I  saw  Tom,  the  day  after  he  came  back,  sitting  all  bowed 
over  his  desk.  It  was  late  in  the  evening  and  the  others  had 
gone.  He  was  expecting  me,  but  he  never  moved  when  I 
came  in  and  I  thought  he  was  ill.  I  went  over  to  him  and  he 
looked  up.  I  never  saw  a  man  so  torn.  His  face  was  ash- 
gray  and  those  lines  he  always  has  down  the  sides  of  his 
mouth  were  deep  like  scars.  And  his  eyes,  they  were  like  a 
hurt  dog's,  so  dumb  and  crushed  and  puzzled.  He  didn't  even 
try  to  cheer  up,  just  said:  'I  won't  be  doing  any  work  to-night; 
I  don't  feel  well.'  I  said  something  about  getting  him  a  drink, 
but  he  shook  his  head  and  I  went.  I  was  rather  afraid — he 
was  going  to  cry." 

"It  wouldn't  have  hurt  him  if  he  had,"  Anne  said  in  a  hard 
whisper.  "He's  killed  Merle's  soul,  and  if  she  goes  to  the 
dogs  it  will  be  his  fault." 

"Killed  Merle's  soul?  She  never  had  one,  at  least  not. 
much  of  a  one." 

"No.  There  are  no  individual  souls,  I  suppose;  just  one 
great,  big  world  soul — though  what  it's  made  of  if  it  isn't 
individual  souls,  I  don't  know." 

Roger  moved  impatiently,  but  when  he  spoke  it  was  with 
weary  acceptance: 

"You  never  liked  Tom.  You  never  understood  him,  the  real 
man,  or  tried  to." 

"No?  I  understand  what  he  claims  to  be,  but  not  what 
he  is." 

"What  is  he?" 

"A  monomaniac."  The  word  slipped  from  Anne  and 
frightened  her. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Anne." 

"He's  gone  mad  on  social  injustice,  just  as  mad  as  any 
capitalist  has  on  accumulating  money.  He's  lost  all  sense  of 
individual  values.  He's  a  machine,  a  machine  for  fighting 
for  his  own  theory." 

Roger's  lips  set.  It  brought  the  squareness  of  his  chin 
into  terrible  relief.  "Roger's  the  same  stuff,  floating  around  in 


150         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  clouds  with  those  blue  eyes  and  that  square  chin."  Anne's 
body  began  to  quiver,  but  she  kept  her  eyes  steady. 

"Let's  not  talk  about  it.    We  don't  agree." 

"Evidently  not.  There  don't  seem  to  be  many  things  we 
do  agree  about  any  more." 

Anne  tried  to  speak  gayly.  Otherwise  the  tears  would  come. 
But  she  sounded  like  Hilda  Mitchell,  pecking  at  a  tragedy  with 
her  silly  giggle. 

"Not  many,"  Roger  said  shortly.  "I've  got  to  go  back  to 
the  office  and  I  may  be  late.  Don't  wait  up  for  me." 

He  kissed  Anne  as  usual,  and  as  usual  she  went  as  far  as 
the  door  with  him.  But  long  after  his  step  had  died  she  stood 
looking  out  over  the  city's  lights,  lonelier  than  she  had  ever 
been  in  all  her  life. 

She  remembered  coming  home  with  Roger  once,  very  late, 
on  just  such  a  night.  They  had  sat  hand  in  hand,  far  in  the 
prow  of  the  almost  empty  ferry,  and  Anne's  head  had  rested 
on  his  shoulder.  She  was  tired  after  a  happy  day,  one  of  the 
old  picnics  they  had  found  time  to  take.  She  had  been  glad 
of  the  lights  coming  nearer  and  they  had  traced  the  row  up 
their  own  hill.  The  twinkling  lights  had  beckoned  them  to 
the  warm,  human  comfort  of  others.  Now  they  burned  on 
indifferent  to  her,  lighting  the  way  for  hurrying  crowds,  the 
creeping,  inimical  confusion  of  the  world.  The  twinkling 
lights  lit  the  ways  of  men  and  men  were  cruel. 

Anne  went  in  and  sat  down  before  the  fire,  without  turning 
on  the  lamp.  It  was  so  still  she  could  hear  her  own  thoughts 
moving  about  her.  Gradually,  from  the  rustling  crowd,  one 
emerged : 

"I've  been  through  it.    You  wait  and  see." 

She  was  not  like  Merle.  Roger  was  not  like  Black  Tom. 
And  yet 

It  was  after  twelve  when  Roger  came. 

"Why,  Anne!" 

Anne  lifted  her  face.    Her  lips  trembled. 

Roger  came  quickly  to  her  in  real  concern.  "You  haven't 
been  sitting  here  alone  worrying,  have  you?  I  didn't  mean  to 
be  harsh." 

Anne  clung  to  him.  "Roger,"  she  whispered,  "I  don't  want 
to  grow  apart." 

"Neither  do  I."    Roger  stroked  her  hair,  the  old  tenderness 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         151 

moving  him.  "And  since  neither  of  us  do,"  he  said  after  a 
moment,  with  a  smile,  "I  guess  we  won't." 

Anne  answered  his  smile  weakly.  "Roger,  I  don't  believe 
it  is  right  just  to  sit  up  here  keeping  the  'house  like  a  jewel- 
box'  and  looking  after  Rogie.  I'm  going  to  work." 

"What?"  Roger  had  never  very  clearly  heard  when  Anne 
looked  like  that,  and  she  had  not  looked  like  that  for  a  long 
time. 

"I — am — going — to  work,"  Anne  repeated  with  exaggerated 
distinctness,  and  laughed. 

"Oh,  you  are,  are  you?    Who  said  you  could?" 

"Myself.    And  you — in  a  minute." 

"Oh,  I  will?  That  depends.  I  won't  have  you  drudging  in 
some  office." 

"No?  How  about  that  extra  stenographer  Katya's  looking 
for?" 

"Anne!" 

"Don't  you  think  I  could  do  it?  I  don't  believe  I've  lost 
much  speed.  I " 

But  Roger's  kiss  silenced  her  and  Anne  did  not  try  to  finish. 
At  last  he  loosed  her. 

"Do  you  really  want  to  do  this,  sweetheart?" 

Anne  turned  her  eyes  away.  "Yes,  Regie's  old  enough  to 
leave  now  and  I  believe  Mrs.  Horton  would  be  glad  of  the 
place.  I  would  get  a  salary,  I  suppose — enough  to  pay  her." 

Roger  grinned.  "You  would — most  of  the  time,  anyhow. 
How  much  would  she  do  it  for,  do  you  think?" 

"How  much  would  I  get?" 

"Eighteen  or  so." 

"That  would  be  plenty — more  than  she  would  ask.  Ill 
talk  it  over  with  her  to-morrow.  You  would  really  like  it?" 

"Anne!  There's  nothing  in  the  world  I  would  like  so  much. 
Why  I — I — thought  lots  of  times  of  asking  you  just  that  thing." 

Remembering  his  reason  for  not  doing  it,  Roger,  too,  looked 
into  the  fire,  his  arms  still  close  about  Anne. 

But  Anne  did  not  press  for  the  reason  of  his  silence. 
Against  the  long  evening  alone  with  Merle's  words  singing  in 
her  ears — "Wait  and  see.  It'll  get  him  yet" — his  hold  was 
strong  and  full  of  comfort. 

Suddenly  Anne  gripped  him  close  and  kissed  him,  as  she 
had  kissed  on  the  Bluff,  her  lips  seeking  fiercely,  through  his, 
the  thing  beyond  them  both. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE 

THE  following  Monday  Anne  went  to  the  loft  with  Roger. 
Another  niche  was  partitioned  off  for  her  and  she  began 
to  take  dictation. 

Now  that  she  had  definitely  come  among  them,  joined  her 
interest  with  Roger's,  Anne  tried  to  shake  off  the  feeling  that 
had  held  her  in  the  past  when  she  waited  for  Roger,  and  to 
get  below  the  surface  of  this  violent  enthusiasm.  But  she 
could  not  do  it. 

So  many  orders  were  given  during  a  day,  so  many  plans 
made,  so  many  contingencies  prepared  for  that  never  arose. 
It  was  an  exhausting  game,  the  enthusiasm  created  by  the  play- 
ers themselves.  It  was  an  insane  May  dance,  Black  Tom  in 
the  center  holding  the  ribbons. 

And  such  strange  people  danced  at  the  end  of  the  strings. 
Anne  had  never  seen  so  many  different  nations  and  kinds  of 
individuals  in  one  spot,  nor  imagined  they  could  so  exist. 
Ministers  who  had  given  up  the  Gospel  of  Christ  to  preach  this 
gospel  of  Man;  teachers  weary  of  the  narrow  round  of  instruct- 
ing; a  college  professor  who  had  discovered  that  the  Social 
Revolution  had  really  begun  with  creation,  and  written  a  pam- 
phlet to  prove  it.  A  chemist  who  had  discovered  with  equal 
suddenness  that  the  social  revolution  was  the  newest  and 
perhaps  the  last  stage  in  man's  evolution  from  the  lower  types. 

There  were  men  and  women  who  saw  some  great  change  in 
the  conduct  of  world  affairs  looming  in  huge,  vague  mass,  but 
had  no  clear  idea  as  to  how  this  vague  mass  was  to  be  shaped. 
Others  who  saw  only  the  small,  unimportant  details  and  these 
groups  argued  for  hours  accusing  each  other  of  wrong  methods 
that  delayed  progress.  There  was  one  young  man  with  mild, 
kind  eyes  who  forgave  all  bigotry  and  personal  misunderstand- 
ing and  wrote  fierce,  revolutionary  songs,  clarion  calls  to 
these  people  whom  he  forgave  for  not  hearing.  There  was  one 
plump  little  widow,  raised  in  rigid  Boston,  who  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  had  found  an  opportunity  to  berate  car-con- 
ductors and  minor  officials  in  a  loud  voice.  These  she  called 

152 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         153 

publicly,  in  piercing  tones — "the  wage  slaves  of  a  rotten  sys- 
tem"— and  urged  them  to  organize.  She  could  always  be 
relied  upon  at  a  moment's  notice  to  picket,  carry  banners  or 
distribute  leaflets.  The  "rottenness  of  the  system"  excused 
her  from  contributing  to  any  charity,  but,  until  the  arrival  of 
the  millennium,  she  invested  her  income  with  remarkable 
shrewdness  in  bonds. 

Above  this  conglomerate  of  excitement  Katya  rose  like  a 
mountain  in  her  belief  and  patience.  Katya  never  attacked 
car-conductors  nor  urged  telephone  girls  to  strike,  or  bothered 
whether  the  social  revolution  had  begun  with  creation,  or 
whether  it  was  the  last  stage  of  progress.  Katya  worked,  often 
far  into  the  night,  and  rarely  spoke  to  any  one  but  Tom  or 
Roger.  Anne  she  ignored,  not  with  definite  rudeness  but  with 
an  unfathomable  disregard  of  her  existence.  In  her  dark 
corner  Katya  was  like  a  brown  bear  that  had  been  taught  to 
work.  So  incessant  was  the  click  of  her  machine  that  it 
was  noticeable  only  in  its  rare  intervals  of  silence,  as  one 
notices  the  momentary  lull  of  the  sea  forever  breaking  on  a 
rocky  coast. 

At  first  it  was  almost  impossible  for  Anne  to  take  Black 
Tom's  dictation,  to  speak  to  him,  or  be  near  him.  Merle  was 
always  there  in  her  brilliant  smock.  Or  the  staring,  embryonic 
eyes  asking  their  eternal  Why? 

It  was  not  until  July,  when  a  heavy  cold  forced  Katya  to 
stay  home  and  Black  Tom's  personal  dictation  fell  to  Anne, 
that  the  faith  of  the  man  at  last  reached  through  her  repul- 
sion and  she  reluctantly  conceded  his  sincerity.  It  was  im- 
possible to  be  admitted  even  so  slightly  into  his  confidence 
and  not  feel  his  faith.  It  was  stark,  like  a  granite  headland, 
unornamented  with  scholastic  theory.  Its  rough  surface  bore 
no  intricate  carving  of  historical  or  philosophic  research.  The 
man  saw  and  believed.  As  the  weeks  passed,  Anne  came  to 
feel  that  if  he  ever  thought  of  Merle,  he  thought  of  her  as  a 
victim,  neither  of  himself  nor  of  her  own  nature,  but  of  this 
colossal  social  injustice  to  which  he  referred  all  the  ills  of 
life. 

But  she  never  grew  to  like  him,  and  months  after  she  had 
come  to  take  his  dictation  with  no  thought  of  Merle,  any  over- 
emphasized admiration  of  Roger's  stripped  her  feeling  back  to 
her  original  disgust. 

"The  trouble  is  that  you  demand  perfection  in  people  you 


154         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

don't  like,"  Roger  said  to  her  one  day,  when  her  annoyance 
at  one  of  Black  Tom's  schemes  for  propaganda  had  driven  her 
to  biting  criticism.  "You  measure  every  quality  in  them  by 
their  highest  peak,  and  when  they  don't  measure  up  to  this 
standard  all  the  way  down,  you  reject  them." 

"Rather  subtle,  but  not  true,"  Anne  said  in  the  voice  that 
always  reminded  Roger  of  a  small,  sharp  gimlet.  "I  don't  see 
anything  for  you  to  take  offense  at.  Tom  O'Connell  is  a 
monomaniac.  Merle  was  right." 

"Any  one  who  believed  utterly  in  an  abstract  principle 
would  be  a  monomaniac  to  Merle." 

"Any  one  who  believes  in  only  one  aspect  of  a  principle 
is  a  monomaniac." 

"Tom  does  not  believe  in  only  one  aspect;  he  is  concerned 
with  only  one  application  of  his  principle.  And  no  human 
being  can  be  interested  in  more.  If  that's  being  a  mono- 
maniac then  Tom's  one,  with  all  the  other  people  in  the  world 
who  have  ever  accomplished  anything.  You  can't  spatter 
your  interest  and  energy  all  over  the  earth  and  make  it  count. 
A  scientist  is  interested  in  science  and  an  artist  in  art.  Tom's 
medium  is  the  present  condition  of  the  world.  He  doesn't 
want  to  win  strikes  for  themselves,  or  stir  up  disorder,  but 
only  that  greater  order  may  come.  His  eyes  aren't  always 
fixed  on  the  sores  and  confusions  under  his  eyes,  but  on  the 
perfect  body  society  might  be.  If  Jesus  Christ  had  lived  to- 
day and  worked  in  a  Pennsylvania  coal  mine  when  He  was 
twelve,  instead  of  two  thousand  years  ago  on  the  sandy  plains 
of  Syria — he  would  have  been  rather  like  Tom,  I  think." 

"That's  ridiculous,  Roger.  You're  getting  to  be  a  mono- 
maniac too." 

"It's  not  ridiculous.  And  if  that's  what  you  call  being  a 
monomaniac,  I'd  just  as  soon  be  one.  In  fact,  I  hope  I  am." 

"Well,  I  don't.  I've  always  been  sorry  for  Christ's  family. 
I  think  He  must  have  been  dreadfully  annoying  to  live  with. 
Didn't  He  tell  His  mother  to  go  home  and  mind  her  business 
while  He  went  and  lectured  to  men  old  enough  to  be  His 
grandfather?" 

"Nice,  old  conservatives,  gripping  their  traditions  like  crabs 
hanging  to  their  rocks." 

"Making  their  application  of  their  principle." 

"No.  Not  making  it  at  all.  Just  hanging  on  to  its  corpse 
long  after  it  had  ceased  to  have  a  spark  of  life.  Once  the 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD          155 

Syrians  had  needed  their  philosophy,  but  they  were  petrifying 
in  a  social  system  that  human  life  had  really  outgrown.  They 
had  lived  so  long  in  a  barren  land,  fighting  for  their  means 
of  living,  fighting  against  their  sand  wastes  and  rocks  and 
neighboring  tribes,  that  the  whole  of  life  had  become  a  kind 
of  arena.  Their  Jehovah  was  only  another  brigand  of  the 
Syrian  hills.  Those  old  men  you  sympathize  with  were  like 
the  militarists  of  to-day.  They  can't  think  except  in  terms 
of  gunpowder.  'War  always  has  been'  and  so  it's  always 
going  to  be.  Then  Christ  happened  along  and  saw  that 
Life  was  wider  than  the  barren  wastes  of  Syria  and  that 
they  were  at  the  wrong  end  of  the  solution.  Those  old  Syrian 
War-lords  had  applied  the  principle  of  physical  conquest  to 
all  kinds  of  spiritual  problems  and  Christ  saw  that  it  wasn't 
getting  them  anywhere.  He  was  really  telling  them  how  to  get 
the  things  they  had  started  out  after  and  lost  the  way  of  find- 
ing. When  I  was  a  kid  He  used  to  annoy  me  awfully — an 
anemic  young  Jew  with  a  silly  beard  and  girl  eyes — but  I've 
gotten  to  like  Him." 

"You'll  get  to  like  any  other  monomaniac  whose  been  dead 
long  enough." 

"Are  we  quarreling?"  Roger  asked  impatiently,  exasperated 
by  this  eternal  twisting  of  a  general  path  back  to  the  personal 
point.  "I  thought  we  were  discussing  that  measure  Tom's 
going  to  try  and  put  through  the  convention." 

"We  are — as  far  as  I  am  concerned.    You  dragged  in  Christ." 

"I  didn't  drag  Christ  in  except  to  try  and  make  you  see 
why  Tom  wants  to  get  this  particular  measure  across.  I  don't 
understand  you,  Anne.  You  say  sometimes  that  you  believe 
the  man's  sincere  and  yet  you're  always  trying  to  measure 
him  up  with  some  little  yardstick  of  inherited  social  conven- 
tion. Tom's  like  the  great  central  wheel  of  some  high-powered 
machine,  and  you  pick  flaws  because  he's  not  the  spring  of 
some  jeweled  and  useless  little  watch." 

Anne  shrugged  and  began  to  gather  up  the  dinner  things. 
What  did  it  matter?  If  she  and  Roger  talked  half  the  night 
they  would  only  branch  from  one  difference  to  another.  In 
the  exhausting  day  behind  her  there  was  not  one  still  spot 
wherein  they  could  meet  in  perfect  accord.  To  her,  the  day 
had  been  filled  with  whirling,  human  particles  that  obstructed 
her  vision  and  stimulated  Roger.  All  day  Anne  had  felt  choked 
by  these  particles;  the  mannerisms,  the  shop-worn  jargon,  the 


156         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

unrestrained  enthusiasm,  had  gotten  into  her  ears  and  eyes 
and  down  her  throat  like  sand.  She  had  meant  to  keep  the 
dinner  hour  free  from  this  sand,  but  it  had  filtered  in.  It 
always  did.  Anne  was  coming  to  feel  that  these  people  with 
whom  she  passed  the  day  followed  her  home  at  night. 

As  Roger  watched  her  moving,  slight  and  graceful,  about 
the  room,  putting  it  in  evening  order,  he  wondered  why  Anne 
had  ever  offered  to  come  to  the  loft.  She  did  the  work  well, 
as  she  had  done  John  Lowell's,  but  with  no  more  personal  joy 
in  it.  And  yet  Anne  had  once  felt  a  larger  world  calling  for 
more  than  perfection  of  mechanical  detail  or  conscientious 
accomplishment  of  the  day's  stint.  At  what  point  in  their 
lives  had  that  Anne  slipped  away  into  the  fog  in  which  he 
groped  now  without  finding  her?  Behind  his  book  Roger 
grappled  with  this  problem,  growing  larger  week  by  week. 

Two  years  before  they  had  started  from  the  same  point  to 
walk  along  a  road  together.  At  no  spot  had  they  left  the  way. 
No  emotional  side-path  had  lured  Roger  from  his  faithfulness 
to  Anne;  no  other  way  of  life  had  tempted  her.  Their  hope 
had  been  the  same — to  live  beautifully  a  beautiful  life.  They 
were  not  living  it  beautifully.  It  was  growing  ugly,  full  of  im- 
patience on  his  side,  suppressions  on  hers.  Sometimes,  for  a  few 
days,  even  a  week,  they  managed  to  step  from  stone  to  stone 
of  personal  agreement,  and  then,  on  some  little  hidden  rock, 
they  stood  and  grew  bitter  toward  each  other. 

In  the  kitchen  Anne  stacked  the  dishes  for  Mrs.  Horton's 
coming  in  the  morning,  clicked  off  the  light,  and  came  back. 
She,  too,  took  a  book  and  curled  up  in  her  favorite  spot  on  the 
couch  to  read. 

Was  she  reading?  Didn't  she  feel  this  fog  closing  in  about 
them?  What  would  happen  if  he  asked  her  why  she  had 
wished  to  work  with  him,  or  suggested  that  she  leave  it? 
Would  Anne  be  honest  and  tell  him?  Did  she  know  herself? 

But  Roger  did  not  ask.  At  ten  he  stopped  reading.  A  few 
moments  later  Anne  finished  her  chapter.  They  went  to  bed. 
From  habit,  Anne  lay  close  for  a  little,  with  his  arm  about 
her.  Then  he  kissed  her  and  turned  over  on  his  side.  Once 
more  the  harmony  of  sleep  covered  the  tangled  knots  and 
broken  threads  of  the  day  behind. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

SO  the  weeks  passed  until  one  afternoon  in  early  August, 
when  James  Mitchell  was  taken  suddenly  ill  and  Hilda  sent 
for  Anne.  She  found  her  mother  sitting  in  the  kitchen,  crying 
helplessly  as  if  she  would  never  stop.  Anne  knelt  beside  her. 

"Mamma.  Dear.  Don't.  You  mustn't;  you'll  get  all  worn 
out." 

Through  the  running  tears  Hilda's  frightened  eyes  clung  to 
Anne. 

"It — it  was  terrible.  I've  never  been"  through  such  a  thing 
/  in  my  life.  I  had  such  a  Vime  to  get  you.  They — brought  him 
home — oh,  I  wish  Belle  was  here." 

Anne  took  the  shaking  hands  in  hers  and  held  them  firmly. 

"Mamma,  you  must  stop  crying.  It  won't  do  any  good  and 
I  want  to  know.  Who  said  it  was  a  stroke?" 

"Dr.  Fletcher,  the  company  doctor.  Thank  goodness  the 
company  gives  a  doctor.  What  would  we  do,  Anne,  if  they 
didn't?  What  we'll  do  anyhow — I  don't  know.  And  I  never 
would  have  dreamed  of  a  stroke.  Papa,  of  all  people!  He  isn't 
the  build.  He  isn't  the  kind  that  gets  strokes.  He " 

"But  momsy  dear,  he  has  it.  Don't,  don't  go  worrying 
about  other  things.  And  the  company  has  a  doctor.  Let's 
just  take  one  thing  at  a  time." 

At  the  calm  assurance  of  Anne,  Hilda's  sobs  lessened.  She 
wiped  her  eyes  on  the  corner  of  her  apron  and  spoke  more 
quietly. 

"I  was  just  ready  to  go  out,  down  town  shopping  at  that 
cut-rate  market — it's  beef  bargain  day — when  the  phone  rang 
and  some  one  at  the  office  said  papa  wasn't  well  and  would 
be  coming  home.  Of  course  I  thought  he  had  been  killed  and 
the  girl  got  so  impatient  and  ugly  with  me.  I  don't  believe 
now  they  were  at  the  office  at  all,  because  in  a  few  moments, 
I  had  scarcely  time  to  take  off  my  things,  the  bell  rang  and 
they  had  him  in  a  taxi.  Oh — Anne — he  was  all  kind  of 
purplish;  papa,  who's  too  pale  if  anything,  and  his  eyes  were 
twisted  like,  but  he  knew  me,  and — and — he  didn't  want  me 


158         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

to  do  anything  for  him.  It — it — seemed  to  make  him  nervous 
just  to  have  me  near  him,  and  he  kept  trying  to  say  something 
and  I  couldn't  understand." 

"Can't — he — speak?"  Anne's  lips  were  dry  but  she  kept 
her  tone  level  for  Hilda's  comfort. 

"He  can  now — but  it's  not  like  it  was — although  it  may 
come  back  almost  as  good  as  ever,  in  time,  the  doctor  says. 
But — Anne — he  can't — ever  work  again  and  what  shall  we 
do?  There's  the  lodge  and  perhaps  they'll  take  up  a  little 
collection  in  the  office — papa  seemed  always  donating  to  col- 
lections for  families,  but  then  maybe  he  was  only  fibbing — and 
there's  some  small  pension  scheme  they've  just  put  through. 
But — it's  so — scrappy  and  he'll  need  so  many  things." 

Behind  the  fact  of  her  father's  illness,  towering  over  the 
misfortune  of  his  never  again  being  able  to  speak  quite  clearly, 
or  to  walk  unaided,  loomed  this  ghastly  reality — never  again 
to  work;  never  to  draw  a  monthly  salary  again.  All  her  child- 
hood this  possibility  had  existed  in  the  background  of  life, 
as  it  existed  in  the  background  of  all  the  lives  she  knew — 
the  cessation  of  income,  the  wage-earner's  power  suddenly  cut 
off.  Dependents  on  unearned  money.  Life  continuing  with  the 
source  of  supply  not  in  one's  own  hands,  beyond  one's  control. 
Now  this  fact  was  no  longer  in  the  background.  It  had 
stalked  to  the  very  front  of  life  and  demanded  all  their 
thought.  Two  aging  people,  dependent  on  others!  Anne 
shivered  away  from  it. 

"Don't  think  about  that  now,  mamma,  Perhaps  it  won't 
be  so  bad  as  the  doctor  says.  They're  often  mistaken.  You 
know  how  little  faith  Belle  has  in  them." 

"If  only  Belle  were  here." 

"But  she  isn't,  mamma.  You'll  have  to  do  the  best  you  can 
with  me." 

"Don't  be  sharp  with  me,  Annie.  You  know  I  don't  mean 
it  that  way.  I  don't  know  what  I  would  do  without  you.  I 
could  scarcely  get  to  the  phone  quick  enough  to  call  you.  But 
I  wish  we  knew  where  Belle  was.  I  haven't  had  a  card  ever 
since  that  one  when  they  were  just  starting  for  Jerusalem  or 
some  other  heathenish  spot.  She — she'll  help  if  she  can,  but 
she  never  has  anything  laid  aside.  And  that  was  one  thing 
papa  always  did  try  to  impress  on  you  children — to  look  out 
for  a  rainy  day.  I  hope  you  and  Roger  will  never  do  that, 
Anne,  live  right  up  to  the  last  cent,  not  with  Rogie  and  all. 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         159 

It's  a  temptation  when  everything's  all  right,  but  the  minute 

sickness  comes If  only  papa  hadn't  thought  that  miserly 

little  lodge  and  his  life  insurance  would  be  enough — if  any- 
thing happened — we  might  have  had  a  snug  bit  aside." 

"He  still  has  the  life  insurance,  has  he?  You  remember 
you  used  to  be  afraid  sometimes — he'd  try  to  raise  money  on 
it.  You " 

"Oh — Anne "  Hilda  clutched  her  in  sudden  fear.  "I— 

I — suppose  so.  I  never  dared  ask  papa  things  like  that.  You 
don't  suppose — he  couldn't  have — "h,  Anne " 

"Hush,  dear.  I'm  sorry  I  asked.  Of  course  he  has.  He 
would  surely  have  told  you  if  he  hadn't." 

"He  surely  would  have  done  nothing  of  the  sort.  It's 
exactly  what  he  would  not  do.  He  would  have  thought  he 
could  make  it  up,  get  it  back  or  something." 

Anne  rose  and  began  taking  off  her  things.  "I'll  stay  to- 
night, momsy.  I'll  just  go  and  phone  Roger  and  Mrs.  Horton. 
She  can  take  Rogie  for  a  day  or  two  until  we  see  how  things 
are." 

Hilda  looked  so  relieved,  almost  cheerful,  that  Anne  bent 
and  kissed  her. 

"It  will  be  all  right,  dear.    We'll  manage." 

Hilda  clung  to  her  hand.  "Annie — you  don't  really  think 
— he  might  have " 

Anne  took  a  sudden  decision.  "I'll  ask  him,  mamma."  It 
would  be  difficult  enough  the  next  few  days  without  this  con- 
stant, harping  anxiety  of  her  mother's. 

"Annie!  You  can't  ask  him  a  thing  like  that.  Not  now. 
The  doctor  said  he  must  have  absolute  rest,  not  be  worried 
or  annoyed  in  any  way.  He  would  think  we  were  counting 
— Anne!  It's  horrible." 

"I  won't  do  it  that  way,  moms.  I  won't  do  it  at  all  if  it 
doesn't  work  out.  Please  trust  me." 

"I  do,  Annie.  And  I  would  like  to  know.  I  sha'n't  be 
able  to  think  of  anything  else  until  I  do.  You  won't  be  long 
phoning,  will  you?" 

"Just  a  minute.  Suppose  you  make  some  tea.  I'd  like  a 
cup." 

Happy  to  do  something  definite,  more,  to  be  told  exactly 
what  to  do,  Hilda  began  to  make  the  tea. 

Roger  had  come  in  and  Anne  told  him  briefly  what  had 
happened  and  that  she  would  stay  a  day  or  two.  He  was  not 


160         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

to  phone  as  the  bell  might  disturb  James  and  the  doctor  had 
said  he  was  to  have  absolute  quiet.  She  would  phone  instead, 
the  following  evening. 

The  tea  was  made  and  they  drank  it,  Hilda's  spirit  reviving 
in  bounds  at  the  knowledge  she  was  not  to  be  left  alone  in 
her  dilemma.  Anne  tried  to  talk  of  other  things,  but  again 
and  again  Hilda  came  back  to  the  question — had  James 
Mitchell  disposed  of  his  insurance?  At  last  they  heard  a 
sound  from  the  sick  room. 

"He's  waking,  Anne.  Don't — don't  tell  him  you  can't 
understand  what  he  says — it  seemed  to  vex  him  so.  He — 

"I  won't  vex  him."  Now  that  she  was  about  to  see  her 
father,  changed  perhaps  almost  beyond  recognition,  Anne's 
voice  shook.  At  this  sign  of  weakness  Hilda  began  again  to 
cry.  Anne  went  quickly  out  of  the  room. 

At  the  sound  of  some  one  entering,  James  Mitchell  tried 
to  turn  his  head.  He  was  very  weak,  and  his  neck  seemed 
twisted  and  stiff,  but  his  eyes  moved-  and  when  he  say  ^ho 
it  was  they  lit  faintty 

"Annie,"  he  said  in  a  low,  thick  tone,  but  much  more  clearly 
than  she  had  expected. 

She  sat  down  on  the  bed  edge  and  took  his  hand  in  hers. 
It  was  strange  to  be  taking  her  father's  hand,  offering  him  any 
physical  demonstration  of  affection.  As  if  the  act  generated 
the  impulse,  a  welling  pity  rose  in  Anne.  His  fingers  closed 
on  hers  and  he  tried  to  nod. 

"Don't  try  to  talk,  papa.  Just  rest.  It  will  do  you  lots  of 
good." 

Anne  was  not  sure  whether  the  faintest  smile  of  scorn 
touched  his  lips  under  the  ragged  gray  mustache,  or  whether 
they  were  curved  forever  into  that  faint  bitterness. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come,  Annie.  You  can  stay  a  while,  can 
you?"  It  took  him  a  long  time  to  say  this  and  Anne  felt  her 
nerves  tighten  between  the  words. 

"As  long  as  you  need  me.  But  you're  not  going  to  need 
me  long.  If  you  do  as  the  doctor  says,  you'll  soon  be  about. 
These  things  don't — don't  mean  anything  permanent."  Anne 
spoke  cheerfully,  but  the  dawning  hope  in  her  father's  eyes 
shamed  her  to  silence.  She  longed  to  turn  her  eyes  away 
from  that  pitiful  hope,  but  dared  not. 

"No — Annie — I  won't  get  better."  It  begged  again  her 
assurance. 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         161 

"Well,  we'll  do  what  the  doctor  says  anyhow,  papa." 

"I've — never  been  sick "  James  mumbled,  "always — lived 

sensibly — just — my  luck " 

"Don't  worry  about  anything  now,  papa,"  Anne  said  sooth- 
ingly, and  disengaged  her  fingers. 

"I — want — a  drink,  Annie." 

She  brought  a  glass  of  fresh,  cold  water,  held  it  for  him  to 
drink  and  then,  supporting  him  with  one  arm,  deftly  shook  up 
the  pillows  and  placed  him  comfortably  on  them. 

"That — was  fine — don't  let  mamma — she  makes  me  nervous. 
She  doesn't  get  what  I  say.  Do  I  talk  very  thick,  Annie?" 

"No.    I  understand." 

"Of  course  you  do,"  he  mumbled.  He  held  her  fingers  again 
and  she  could  not  draw  them  away.  Nor  could  she  ask  him 
about  the  insurance  while  he  clung  like  that,  so  weak,  so 
changed,  so  suddenly  dependent  upon  her.  And  she  had  never 
loved  him.  She  did  not  love  him  now.  She  could  never  love 
him.  The  tragedy  lay  in  that — she  never  could.  He  might 
grow  better.  He  might  grow  worse.  She  might  be  there  a 
long  time,  doing  the  horrible,  intimate  things  nurses  did  for 
hire,  to  Anne  revolting,  except  for  deep  love.  She  would  do 
them  to  save  his  nerves  from  Hilda,  the  woman  with  whom  he 
had  lived  for  more  than  thirty  years;  who  did  not  understand 
his  blurred  speech,  whose  every  motion  disturbed  him;  Hilda, 
sitting  in  the  kitchen  waiting  to  hear  whether  he  had  gambled 
away  her  only  hope  of  independence  when  he  had  gone. 

Anne  slipped  her  hand  from  his,  covering  its  withdrawal  by 
soft  little  taps  on  the  back  of  his.  She  must  ask  him  now, 
while  her  presence  still  held  something  of  the  unusual.  In  a 
few  days  he  would  have  accepted  her  ministering.  All  the 
small  tyranny  of  him  would  have  risen  in  defiance  of  his  de- 
pendence on  them.  She  must  do  it  now,  or  not  at  all.  With- 
out preamble,  Anne  asked  quietly: 

"Papa,  things  may  be  a  little  tight  for  the  present.  Do 
you  think  we  might  raise  a  little  money  on  your  life  insurance? 
As  soon  as  we  can  reach  Belle " 

With  sudden  strength  his  fingers  clutched  her  arm.  and  he 
gripped  it  until  she  felt  the  bones  press  into  her  flesh.  His 
eyes  were  full  of  anger,  fear,  defiance.  With  a  terrible  effort 
he  drew  her  down,  motioning  with  his  slightly  twisted  lips  not 
to  let  Hilda  hear. 

"I  haven't  got — it — Annie.     I — thought — I  had  a  sure — 


1 62         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

thing — it  was  sure — and  I  staked — it's  gone,"  he  ended  in  a 
squeaking  note  of  fear  and  anger. 

Anne  patted  his  shoulder  and  tried  to  speak  cheerfully. 
"Never  mind,  papa.  Never  mind.  Don't  think  about  it." 

That  fearful  squeak,  like  a  mouse  caught  in  a  trap. 

"Don't — tell — her,  Annie.  She'll  fuss  me  about  it  and — I 
meant  it  right.  It — was  for  her — I  don't  want  anything  for 
myself — it  was  a  sure  thing.  Just  my  luck — any  one  would 
have  taken — the  tip." 

And  there  was  nothing  Anne  could  find  to  say,  although 
she  seemed  to  be  tearing  her  brain  apart  in  an  effort  to  find 
a  thought.  She  could  only  whisper  absently,  over  and  over: 

"Never  mind,  papa;  we'll  talk  about  it  later."  At  last  the 
monotony  of  repetition  soothed  him,  and  he  freed  her  to  tuck 
the  clothes  about  him.  But  Anne  could  not  bend  to  kiss  him. 
With  all  her  strength  she  tried.  Her  muscles  would  not  obey. 
She  stroked  his  cheek  and,  with  an  extra  little  pat,  said  good 
night  and  left  him.  Almost  before  she  was  out  of  the  room  he 
was  asleep. 

Anne  went  slowly  the  short  distance  from  the  bedroom  to  the 
kitchen.  The  door  was  ajar  and  she  saw  Hilda  crocheting,  a 
wad  of  lace  in  a  soupbowl  by  her  on  the  table.  Years  ago 
Anne  and  Belle  had  rebelled  against  the  monstrosity  of  pine- 
apple edging  or  star  pattern  upon  their  underclothes.  Still 
Hilda  persisted  in  "not  wasting  time."  The  darkest  crannies 
of  the  Niche  were  filled  with  these  rolls  of  crochet;  they  were 
even  tucked  away  on  the  pantry  shelves. 

"One — two — three  plain,  and  four  chain,"  Hilda  mumbled. 

Anne  went  in  and  closed  the  door.  "He  did  do  it.  He's 
lost  the  insurance,  bet  it  away  on  a  sure  thing  and  it's  gone." 

"Oh— Anne " 

"Don't  cry,"  Anne  went  on  in  the  stern  tone  with  which 
one  handles  an  hysterical  child.  "It  won't  get  it  back.  And 
if  I  were  you  I  wouldn't  say  anything  to  him.  It's  done.  He 
can't  undo  it  now  and  he'll  have  time  enough  to  wish  it  un- 
done— lying — there — thinking  about  it." 

Hilda  forced  back  the  tears.  After  a  moment  she  heaved 
a  sigh  and  picked  up  the  edging  again.  Soon  she  was  lost 
once  more  in  the  intricacies  of  one — two — three  plain,  and 
four  chain. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

HE  days  went  by  neither  slowly  nor  quickly,  but  with  a 
A  terrible  fixity  of  sameness.  The  routine  of  illness,  once 
established,  life  adjusted  itself  to  nourishment  at  certain  hours, 
periods  of  sleep,  efforts  to  entertain  James.  Even  waiting  to 
hear  from  Belle  was  reduced  to  a  law,  once  in  the  morning 
post,  once  in  the  afternoon.  As  soon  as  they  received  her 
address  they  would  cable.  Till  then  they  had  to  wait. 

With  the  assumption  of  all  responsibility  by  Anne,  Hilda 
Mitchell  ceased  to  worry  about  the  future.  Her  old  gayety  re- 
turned. Sometimes  Anne  felt  that  her  mother  was  really  en- 
joying herself  more  than  she  had  for  many  years.  In  this  re- 
lease from  the  housekeeping  cares  she  had  borne  so  long,  she 
was  like  a  child.  She  insisted  on  doing  all  the  errands,  and 
although  it  sometimes  annoyed  Anne,  on  the  whole  it  filled  her 
with  tender  amusement  to  find  how  far  Hilda  insisted  on 
going  for  some  small,  needed  thing.  Prescriptions  she  always 
had  filled  at  night  in  a  big  down-town  drug  store,  although 
there  was  a  small,  reliable  but  very  dull  little  drug  store  on  the 
corner.  She  followed  food  bargains  about  the  city,  adding 
carfare  until  the  article  cost  more  than  it  would  have  in  her 
own  block. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  week  Anne  brought  Rogie  to  the  flat. 
When  James  was  awake  he  liked  to  have  the  baby  crawling 
and  laughing  about  him.  Sometimes  Anne  wanted  to  cry  as 
she  watched  the  numbed  form  propped  in  the  big  bed  and  the 
laughing,  crawling  baby  dragging  his  little  limbs  in  their  awk- 
ward newness  over  the  limbs  that  would  never  walk  again. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  week  she  felt  that  she  had  lived 
this  way  for  years,  that  she  would  never  live  otherwise. 
The  loft  and  the  world  with  its  bickering  were  far  away,  be- 
hind the  present  routine.  On  Tuesdays  and  Sunday  evenings 
two  old  men  took  turns  in  coming  to  see  James.  A  quick, 
wiry  little  man  came  on  Tuesday.  A  slow,  fat  man  on  Sunday. 
They  came  early  in  the  evening,  just  after  their  own  suppers, 
and  James  watched  all  day  for  their  coming.  They  never  had 

163 


1 64         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

much  news  and  there  were  long  pauses  between  their  remarks. 
The  flat  was  never  so  still,  so  cut  off  from  the  world  function- 
ing beyond  this  silence,  as  in  these  long  intervals  between  the 
items  of  office  gossip.  Anne  could  never  shut  the  kitchen  door 
and  forget  the  old  men,  but  sat  tense,  waiting  for  the  next  buzz 
from  the  sick  room. 

They  had  imposed  upon  themselves  this  task  of  calling,  but 
she  felt  their  relief  when,  always  a  few  moments  before  half- 
past  eight,  each  old  man  rose  to  go,  said  something  reassuring 
about  soon  seeing  James  Mitchell  back  at  work,  and  with 
awkward  kindliness  got  himself  out  of  the  room.  Then  Anne 
would  go  in,  straighten  her  father's  pillows,  make  him  com- 
fortable for  the  night,  and  listen  with  assumed  interest  while 
he  retailed  in  his  thick,  halting  speech,  their  meager  news. 
The  paucity  of  it  hurt  beyond  her  strength  to  reply.  To 
have  lived  fifty-five  years  and  have  no  interests  larger  than  the 
clickirigs  of  a  machine,  functioning  far  above  him;  to  be 
bound  in  the  tiny  screws  and  cogs  of  an  intricate  mechanism, 
towering  into  official  dimness.  The  old  men  depressed  Anne 
terribly,  almost  more  than  James  himself.  His  illness  sepa- 
rated him,  in  his  first  distinction,  from  the  rest  of  his  world. 
But  they  were  still  pfort  of  it.  Like  chained  animals  they 
seized  and  gnawed  at  each  tiny  happening  until  they  had 
gnawed  it  to  powder.  In  these  clouds  of  dust  they  were  walk- 
ing blindly  toward  the  grave. 

On  the  nights  when  the  old  men  did  not  come  James  dropped 
asleep  almost  immediately  after  his  light  supper.  Anne  put 
little  Roger  to  bed.  Hilda  found  some  reason  to  leave  the 
house,  even  if  it  were  only  "to  run  down  to  Mrs.  Welles'  for 
a  minute,"  and  Anne  was  alone.  Sometimes  she  sat  in  her  old 
room,  beside  Rogie's  basket,  and  stared  out  into  the  darkening 
street.  Strange  noises  emerged  into  the  stillness,  tickings  and 
creakings  in  the  walls,  rustlings  and  faint  tappings. 

Anne's  thoughts,  too  vivid  to  be  held  within  her  brain, 
slipped  into  the  darkness  and  she  saw  them,  pictures  in  the 
thick  silence;  the  terrible  black* vacuum  of  life  in  which  moved 
the  old  gray  men,  her  father,  Hilda,  herself,  Roger,  Tom,  the 
dancing  marionettes  about  him;  Hilary  Wainwright,  his  keen- 
eyed  partners  in  great  enterprises;  Merle  snatching  at  beauty, 
the  grimed  workers;  all  groups  of  whirling  dervishes,  spinning 
round  in  useless  effort,  until  they  dropped  into  decay  and  death, 

It  was  in  such  a  mood,  one  night  about  three  weeks  after 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         165 

she  had  come  to  care  for  James,  that  Anne  went  on  the  back 
porch,  where  the>sure  shining  of  the  stars,  the  black  outline 
of  the  unchanging  hills,  sometimes  gave  her  rest.  But  to- 
night no  peace  came.  The  stars  were  hard  and  cold,  the  hills 
indifferent.  Locked  in  a  vault  of  decay  and  death,  she  heard 
the  voice  of  Life,  like  the  undertone  of  the  sea  wailing  forever: 
This  is  all  there  is.  I  am  decay  and  death,  decay  and  death. 

So  deep  was  she  within  the  darkness  of  this  realization  that 
when  a  man's  quick  step  sounded  on  the  stairs  and  she  saw 
Roger  smiling  up,  Anne  stared  back  as  if  he  were  a  stranger 
from  another  world.  Roger's  smile  vanished  and  he  bounded 
up  the  last  steps  and  took  her  in  his  arms.  At  his  touch  the 
vividness  of  thought  vanished,  and  she  seemed  to  slip  down 
from  the  high  places  of  a  dream  into  waking.  It  was  good  to 
feel  his  hold  again  and  Anne  smiled  at  him,  but  he  looked  at  her 
anxiously. 

"Princess,  you're  awfully  pale,  and  your  eyes  are  as  big 
as  saucers." 

"Are  they?    That's  good  news;  they  always  were  too  small." 

"I'm  not  joking,  Anne.    You  look  all  in." 

"I  feel  all  right,  a  little  tired,  but  I'm  perfectly  well.  Papa 
had  a  pretty  hard  day — sometimes  I  think  he  knows  he'll 
never  get  about  again  and  it  frightens  him.  He — doesn't  want 
to  be  left  alone  with  mamma.  She  fusses  him  and  he  gets  all 
nervous  and  worn  out." 

"Can't  they  get  some  one?" 

"No.  They  couldn't  pay  any  one.  The  pension  isn't 
straightened  yet.  They're  taking  up  a  collection,  but  a  couple 
of  hundred  will  be  a  miracle,  and  how  long  does  that  last  in 
illness?  Besides,  mamma  is  such  a  bad  manager."  • 

"You're  not  responsible  for  that.    And  how  about  me?" 

"You're  a  wonderful  manager." 

"I'm  not." 

"Then  you  ought  to  learn,"  Anne  tried  to  tease.  "It's  really 
my  duty  to  stay  away  until  you  do.  A  great,  big,  social  revo- 
lutionist able  to  reorganize  the  world,  needing  one  small  wife  to 
look  out  for  him!" 

"It's  beastly  eating  at  restaurants,  and  that  hill's  the  stillest 
place  in  the  world  at  night.  It's  like  lighting  up  a  tomb  to  go 
home  and  not  hear  you  or  Rogie." 

Anne  thought  of  the  old  man  in  the  other  room,  eating  his 
soft,  childish  foods,  alone  with  the  empty  past  and  death. 


1 66         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

"I  can't  leave  them,  Roger,  not  yet.  The  doctor  says  that 
in  a  few  weeks  he  may  be  able  to  get  into  a  wheel-chair,  and 
then  he  can  come  out  here.  That  will  be  some  change." 

But  Roger  did  not  hear  what  Anne  was  saying;  her  eyes 
with  their  dark  circles  beneath  were  too  big,  her  cheeks  too 
pale. 

"But  you'll  be  ill  yourself,  and  what  good  will  that  do  them? 
Anne,  Tom  isn't  going  to  be  able  to  make  that  Chicago  con- 
vention; he  wants  me  to  go  instead.  Won't  you  come?" 

"To  Chicago!  Now!  I  couldn't,  Roger.  I  couldn't  go  that 
far  away  now." 

"Why  not?" 

If  the  Mitchells  had  been  on  the  other  side  of  the  world 
they  would  have  had  to  manage  without  her.  "It  seems  to 
me  you've  done  as  much  as  they  can  expect." 

Anne  stiffened.  "They  don't  expect  anything.  I'm  not  do- 
ing it  because  they  expect  it.  There's  nothing  else  to  do.  Don't 
talk  like  that,  Roger;  I  don't  like  it." 

"And  I  don't  like  it  either,  this  arrangement,  not  one  bit." 

Anne  flushed.  She  felt  that  Roger  was  opposing  her  oppo- 
sition more  than  entreating  her  to  go. 

"Let's  not  talk  about  it.  No  matter  what  they  expect  or 
don't  expect,  I  should  be  miserable.  Besides,  it  is  impos- 
sible." 

"What  would  they  do  if  you  weren't  here?" 

"I  am  here." 

"But,  sweetheart,  you  say  he  doesn't  need  special  attention. 
It  wouldn't  even  take  the  expense  of  a  trained  nurse — if  your 
mother  has  to  have  some  one.  A  woman  like  Mrs.  Horton 
could  do  it." 

"Who  would  pay?" 

"We  will — until  you  hear  from  Belle,  anyhow." 

"How?" 

Roger  looked  away  into  the  twinkling  lights. 

"You  see,"  Anne  said  after  a  moment,  with  the  prim  patience 
that  made  Roger  feel  like  a  greedy  child  clinging  to  his  toys. 
"There's  no  sense  in  talking  round  and  round  like  that.  I 
couldn't  go — even  if  I  felt  free  in  other  ways." 

Deftly  Anne  had  poured  the  responsibility  over  him.  Roger 
felt  himself  choking  in  the  patience  of  Anne. 

"You  don't  want  to  go.  Why  can't  you  be  honest  and  say 
so?" 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         167 

"I  can't  leave  them  with  no  one  to  see  after  papa."  Anne's 
reiteration  was  an  iceberg  before  the  sputtering  match  of  his 
objections. 

"She  saw  to  him  for  years." 

Into  that  "she"  went  all  Roger's  scorn  of  Hilda  Mitchell. 

"Then  mamma  has  had  her  share  and  I  wish  to  help  now." 

"Why  didn't  you  say  so  in  the  first  place?  There's  no  need 
to  beat  about  the  bush.  When  it  comes  to  a  show-down  be* 
tween  your  people  and  me,  I  go." 

Anne's  eyes  narrowed.  Her  face  flamed  its  ugly,  brick-red, 
"I  might  just  as  well  have,  mightn't  I?" 

"Certainly."    Roger's  voice  accepted  Anne's  decision. 

There  was  nothing  else  to  say.  Having  fought  over  James 
Mitchell's  body,  it  seemed  grotesque  to  ask  after  him.  Roger 
turned  again  to  the  winking  lights.  Anne  moved  away  to  the 
kitchen  and  lit  the  gas. 

If  he  followed — there  was  nothing  to  talk  about.  But  he 
could  not  call  "good  night"  and  go  off  down  the  back  stairs — 
to  Chicago.  Roger  hesitated.  Voices  sounded  below.  Two 
women  were  coming  up  the  stairs.  He  went  slowly  into  the 
kitchen.  United  in  the  need  of  pretense,  he  and  Anne  stood 
together. 

"I  can  only  stay  a  moment,"  Charlotte  Welles'  voice  trailed 
like  a  soft  cloud  after  the  crackling  sunshine  of  Hilda's  laugh. 

Then  Roger  was  being  introduced  to  a  small,  pale  woman 
with  dark  eyes  that  seemed  to  see  his  annoyance  at  being 
bothered  with  this  introduction. 

As  soon  as  they  were  settled,  he  moved  toward  the  door. 

"Going  already?"  Hilda  asked  brightly. 

"Yes.    I  have  a  lot  to  do  to-night." 

Anne's  heart  thumped.  Perhaps  he  was  going  to  leave  for 
Chicago  to-night.  He  had  not  said  when. 

"Roger's  going  to  Chicago,"  she  explained. 

"To  Chicago!  Well,  that  is  a  trip!  Won't  it  be  roasting? 
Going  on  business?" 

What  did  she  suppose  he  was  going  for?  "Yes,"  he  am 
swered  as  pleasantly  as  he  could,  and  knew  that  Mrs.  Welles 
thought  him  extremely  rude. 

"It's  not  so  hot  now,"  she  interposed  in  her  sweet,  low 
voice,  so  evidently  smoothing  a  situation  she  had  no  right  to 
assume  existed,  that  Roger  resented  her  almost  more  than  he 
did  Hilda. 


i68 

"No.  It  cools  off  in  September."  He  moved  nearer  the 
door.  Anne  and  Hilda  followed. 

"How  long  will  you  be  away?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly.  Perhaps  only  two  weeks,  perhaps 
longer." 

"Good  gracious!"  Hilda  trilled,  "it  doesn't  seem  worth  while 
going  for 'such  a  little  while,  does  it?  Two  weeks!  Hardly 
time  to  get  there  and  back." 

"I'm  not  going  for  the  pleasure  of  the  trip,"  Roger  said 
stiffly,  "and  the  convention  won't  last  more  than  four  days. 
But  I  won't  have  time  to  come  up  again.  I'll  say  good-by 
now."  It  was  almost  a  challenge,  but  it  was  the  best  that 
he  could  do.  Followed  by  Hilda's  stupid  injunction  to  have 
a  good  time,  he  preceded  Anne  into  the  hall  and  she  shut  the 
door.  Instantly  the  heavy  breathing  of  James  Mitchell  filled 
the  space  between  them.  In  silence  they  reached  the  stair- 
head and  he  began  the  long  descent. 

Would  Roger  really  go  like  that,  without  a  kind  word  or 
apology?  Three  steps  below,  Roger  stopped,  and  looked  back. 

He  was  going  away  for  weeks  and  Anne  could  not  even  come 
to  the  door  with  him. 

"I  won't  write  often.  You'll  see  all  the  news  in  the  papers 
and  I'll  be  pretty  busy." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  And  don't  worry  if  you  don't  hear 
from  me.  There  won't  be  any  news." 

They  looked  at  each  other. 

Anne  went  slowly  down  the  three  stairs  and  kissed  him,  a 
kiss  of  condescending  allowance  for  his  bad  temper  and  rude- 
ness. Roger's  lips  brushed  her  cheek.  "Good-bye.  Take  care 
of  yourself." 

He  was  gone. 

"Annie!  Annie!"  It  was  repeated  in  a  querulous  quaver 
from  the  sick  room  and  Anne  went  to  her  father. 

"That  was  Roger,  wasn't  it?  Are  you  going  back  home, 
Annie?"  He  looked  up  from  the  burrow  of  the  bed-clothes, 
so  disturbed  that  Anne  laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  to 
reassure  him. 

"No.  I'm  not  going.  Roger  has  to  go  to  Chicago  and  he 
ran  up  to  say  good-by." 

"That's  nice.  That's  nice,  Annie."  He  patted  her  hand, 
his  eyes  were  already  filming  with  sleep.  In  a  moment  he  was 
breathing  evenly  again. 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         169 

He  had  wakened  from  his  sleep  to  clutch  at  her,  to  hold 
her  to  his  need,  no  matter  what  her  own.  True  to  his  own 
selfishness  until  the  end;  his  claims  always  hidden  under  a 
false  consideration,  just  as  his  pleased  "that's  nice,  that's 
nice,"  covered,  in  its  implication  of  affection  for  her,  the  hook 
with  which  he  would  draw  her  to  him,  hold  her  between  the 
fussy  efforts  of  Hilda  and  his  own  exhausted  nerves. 

Anne  went  quietly  from  the  room,  closing  the  door  except 
for  the  narrow  crack  left  open  always  for  his  call.  In  her 
own  room,  Rogie  was  asleep.  If  she  lit  the  light  he  might 
wake.  She  could  not  lie  in  the  dark  thinking.  She  would 
have  liked  to  go  and  walk  far  in  the  night,  but  Hilda  would 
ask  questions.  There  was  no  spot  in  the  universe  hers,  hers 
alone,  free  from  some  binding  chain,  some  duty  to  some 
one. 

In  the  kitchen,  Charlotte  Welles  was  talking  while  Hilda 
listened,  her  blue  eyes  wide  in  a  fascinated  interest.  As  Anne 
came  just  inside  the  door,  Charlotte's  eyes  included  her  in  what 
she  had  been  saying  and  Anne's  bitterness  .changed  slowly  to 
anger. 

"She  has  lost  everything,"  Charlotte  Welles  was  saying, 
"husband,  child,  wealth.  But  she  has  found  peace.  Now  she 
knows.  She  says  she  was  never  really  happy  before." 

"It's  wonderful.  It  does  seem  as  if  there  must  be  some- 
thing in  it."  Hilda's  head  wabbled  as  if  over- weighted  by  the 
marvel  imposed  upon  her  intelligence. 

"Why  didn't  she  give  away  her  money,"  Anne  demanded 
fiercely,  "and  leave  her  husband  and  kill  her  children — who- 
ever she  may  be — years  ago,  if  that's  all  she  needed  for  her 
happiness?" 

Charlotte  Welles  looked  up  with  such  gentle  understanding 
of  her  bitterness  and  hurt  that  Anne  wanted  to  strike  her. 
What  right  had  this  woman  to  penetrate  one's  mood,  to  be 
always  down  there  under  the  surface  of  one's  thoughts?  It  was 
as  if  she  had  entered  a  room  locked  against  her. 

"Why,  Annie!" 

Anne  ignored  Hilda  and  went  on  in  a  rapid,  cracking  voice. 

"How  on  earth  you  can  believe  such  rubbish,  I  don't  know. 
And  to  call  it  science!  If  science  is  anything,  it's  the  seeking 
of  effect  from  cause.  Something  happens,  and  you  burrow 
far  enough  down  under  the  surface  and  find  the  cause.  A 
woman  loses  everything  in  the  world  she  cared  about  and — 


170         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

she  sings  for  joy!  She  never  loved  her  husband  or  children 
nor  enjoyed  her  wealth." 

"She  did — all  three.  She  was  a  loyal  wife,  a  devoted  mother, 
and  I  never  knew  any  one  do  as  much  good  with  their  money, 
or  use  it  to  finer  purpose." 

"Then  she's  lying,"  Anne  went  on,  "she's  hysterical  and 
unbalanced  by  grief.  It's  not  peace  she's  found,  it's  a  de- 
lusion." 

"It  is  no  delusion.  It  is  peace,  the  peace  that  comes  from 
understanding." 

"  'The  peace  that  passes  understanding.'  " 

"That  passes  understanding — until  you  find  it." 

"And  no  sane  person  ever  will  find  it  in — 'Science  and 
Health'." 

"Annie!  Why,  what's  got  into  you?"  Hilda  flushed  with 
shame  of  Anne's  rudeness,  but  Mrs.  Welles  did  not  seem  to 
notice  it. 

"I  don't  suppose  you  know  much  about  Science,  do  you? 
Have  you  ever  read  'Science  and  Health'?" 

"No.  But  would  I  have  to  read  a  book  claiming  the  moon 
was  made  of  green  cheese,  to  know  it  wasn't?" 

"Certainly  not.  Long  ago  the  moon  was  proved  not  to  be 
made  of  green  cheese." 

"And  long  ago,  farther  back  than  that,  it  was  proved  that 
human  beings — except  a  few  insane  ascetics — are  not  happy 
when  everything  worth  while  in  life  is  snatched  from  them 
and  they  have  nothing  left  to  make  the  fight  worth 
while." 

"No  power  in  heaven  or  earth  can  snatch  everything  from 
one.  It  is  impossible  to  be  left  with  nothing.  There  is  no 
such  thing  as  a  spiritual  vacuum,  because  Love  is  every- 
where." 

"Like  the  poor!" 

"No,  because  there  are  no  poor  who  cannot  escape  from 
their  poverty  if  they  will.  They  remain  poor  because  they  do 
not  understand  Love.  They  do  not  grasp  it  as  a  force,  a 
greater  force  than  any  so-called  natural  force  that  material 
science  has  ever  discovered.  Love  is  the  magnet  that  draws 
worlds  together.  No  star,  no  earth,  no  planet  can  oppose  it. 
The  poor,  the  ill,  the-  unhappy  remain  so  because  they  do  not, 
will  not  Love.  They  shut  themselves  off,  insulate  themselves 
against  the  power  of  Love  by  their  small,  physical  desires. 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         171 

'Seek  ye  first  the  Kingdom  of  God  and  all  these  things  shall 
be  added  unto  you.'  Christ  understood." 

"Without  Mary  Baker  Eddy?" 

"Anne!  If  I  were  Mrs.  Welles  I  wouldn't  explain  another 
thing  to  you." 

"She  needn't,"  Anne  said  wearily,  "I'm  going  to  bed." 

And  she  went.  They  could  talk  her  over  if  they  liked, 
wonder,  excuse  her,  give  her  absent  treatment.  Nothing  mat- 
tered. They  were  not  real,  her  mother  and  father  and  Roger 
were  not  real.  Black  Tom  with  his  detached  love  of  humanity 
and  his  indifference  to  Merle;  Charlotte  Welles  with  her  dis- 
gusting monopoly  of  Universal  Love,  her  intrusive  intimacy 
with  God;  all  snatching  at  some  personal  comfort  and  dress- 
ing up  their  little  fetish,  just  as  she  dressed  Regie's  teddy 
bear  and  made  a  sailor  of  him. 

Nothing  mattered  but  sleep. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR 

AT  the  end  of  three  weeks,  Roger  wrote  his  first  real 
letter.  He  was  going  on  to  the  Pennsylvania  coal  fields, 
then  to  New  York,  the  West  Virginia  mining  country,  the 
southern  cotton  mills  and  home.  It  would  take  him  fully  a 
month  longer.  Anne  read  it  several  times,  as  if  committing 
the  itinerary  to  memory,  gathered  no  picture  or  quickening 
of  interest  from  it,  and  slowly  tore  the  pages  up.  Roger  might 
have  mapped  a  trip  from  star  to  star,  so  little  did  it  seem  to 
touch  her  life.  The  only  realities  were  this  growing  antago- 
nism between  herself  and  Roger,  and  the  helplessness  of  her 
father  and  Rogie.  Between  these  two  points  of  advancing 
Death  and  Life,  Anne  stood,  making  mechanical  motions  of 
getting  up,  going  to  bed,  caring  for  Rogie,  listening  to  Hilda's 
chatter,  and  filling  some  of  the  empty  hours  for  her  father. 

This  was  the  most  difficult  of  all.  No  book  held  him,  al- 
though he  complained  if  none  were  provided  for  him.  His 
fettered  mind  exhausted  itself  in  the  effort  to  assimilate  ex- 
perience beyond  his  own.  He  would  put  away  the  travels 
and  biographies  and  fiction,  for  which  Anne  spent  hours  search- 
ing the  library,  for  the  evening  paper  or  the  most  trivial  bit 
of  gossip.  Sometimes  this  need  to  fill  the  emptiness  about  him 
with  little  concrete  facts  oppressed  Anne  until  her  very  jaws 
ached  with  the  unuttered  words  she  could  not  summon,  and 
her  brain  went  dizzily  round,  searching  in  the  vacancy,  con- 
scious of  its  own  motion. 

Bound  in  a  life  of  routine,  James  Mitchell  complained  if 
his  useless  medicine  was  a  moment  late,  his  nourishment  de- 
layed. He  was  jealous  of  Hilda's  health  and  upbraided  her 
cheerfulness  as  indifference;  but  when  she  was  over-zealous 
for  his  comfort  he  grew  irritable  and  asked  for  Anne. 

Anne  quieted  him.  The  old  friction  between  them  was 
lost  in  the  profundity  of  Anne's  indifference  to  all  that  hap- 
pened. It  was  cloaked  under  her  gentle  touch,  her  quiet  move- 
ments, her  quickness  in  understanding  his  thickened  speech, 
her  anticipation  of  his  needs.  He  liked  to  hold  her  cool  hand 

172 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD          173 

after  she  had  straightened  his  pillows  for  the  night,  or  feel 
its  sure  grip  guiding  his  dragging  feet  to  the  window  to  in- 
vestigate some  trivial  noise  in  the  street  below.  She  read  to 
him  for  hours,  never  putting  the  book  aside  at  his  first  lurch- 
ing into  sleep,  and  so  drawing  him  back  to  realization  of  her 
own  preference. 

She  read  on  until  his  gray  head  dropped  to  his  breast  and 
his  hands  relaxed  in  his  lap.  Then  Anne  would  lay  aside  the 
book  and  look  at  him  impersonally;  at  the  thin  hair,  the 
clothes  spotted  with  dropped  food,  the  heavy  canes  propped 
against  the  chair  arm.  This  man  was  her  father.  From 
this  now  decaying  body,  she  had  drawn  life.  She  had  never 
loved  him,  never  been  near  him,  and  could  never  be  quite 
separated  from  him.  From  the  beginning  of  Time  to  the 
end  of  Time,  the  chain  ran,  a  living  link,  a  dead  link,  on  and 
on;  health  no  more  permanent  than  decay,  life  as  accidental 
and  meaningless  as  death.  She  would  grow  old  and  rot; 
Rogie  would  grow  old  and  rot;  and  his  son's  sons  until  Time 
itself  dropped  in  death.  Or,  somewhere  along  the  line,  Time 
would  snap  suddenly,  as  purposeless  in  its  ceasing  as  in  its 
beginning.  Her  longings  for  a  permanent  Beauty,  Hilda's 
unconscious  clutching  at  happiness,  Roger's  childish  faith  in 
his  power  to  create  justice,  Black  Tom's  ferocious  idealism, 
all  meaningless  words  scratched  on  the  monument  to  Death. 
This  overwhelming  negation  was  Reality.  Only  people  like 
Charlotte  Welles,  blind  and  insensate  before  their  own  terror 
of  extermination,  could  juggle  away  this  truth. 

Charlotte  Welles  no  longer  annoyed  Anne.  Charlotte  was 
no  more  deluded  than  any  one  else.  In  the  confusion  of 
living,  she  had  darted  down  a  blind  alley,  but  no  more  of  a 
blind  alley  than  any  other  path  opened  to  the  shufflings  of 
humanity.  At  least  this  path  hurt  no  one,  as  Roger  hurt  her, 
as  Black  Tom  hurt  Merle,  as  her  father  and  mother  hurt 
each  other. 

Anne  had  even  grown  to  like  Mrs.  Welles  and  look  for  her 
coming.  With  quiet  cheerfulness  she  often  led  James  Mitchell 
away  from  the  realization  of  his  heavy  canes  and  numbed 
feet  back  into  the  only  world  he  had  ever  known.  Deep 
within  him,  the  hope  lingered  that  he  would  again  be  able 
to  go  to  the  office,  make  endless  rows  of  figures  and  be  com- 
mended for  his  faithfulness:  that  he  would  draw  his  salary, 
place  his  small  bets,  make  his  luckless  snatches  at  fortune, 


174         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

become  again  "the  head  of  the  house."  Without  deliberately 
deceiving  him,  Mrs.  Welles  deepened  this  faith,  so  that,  after 
a  visit  from  her  he  was  actually  stronger  and  once  managed, 
unaided  except  for  his  canes,  to  stumble  across  the  room. 

Anne  felt  her  always  standing  beside  the  sick  man,  throw- 
ing the  thread  of  her  faith  about  him,  trying  to  draw  him 
back  to  health.  When  she  did  not  come  for  a  few  days, 
James  fretted. 

"I  really  believe  you  do  him  good,"  Anne  said  to  her  at 
the  end  of  an  afternoon  in  which  Charlotte  had  kept  him 
cheerful  for  hours. 

"Faith  will  move  mountains.  You  can  never  tell."  It 
was  the  first  direct  reference  she  had  made  to  her  belief  since 
the  night  of  Anne's  rudeness.  But  now,  the  assurance  did  not 
anger  Anne.  She  was  too  weary. 

"Faith  in  what?" 

"Faith — in  the  power  of  faith.    Just  believing." 

"Believing  that  you  will  get  what  you  want  just  because 
you  want  it?" 

"Not  exactly.  Believing  in  the  harmony  of  Life,  knowing 
that  what  you  must  have,  what  your  soul  needs,  must  come." 

"How  do  you  know  what  your  soul  needs?" 

The  other  paused,  thoughtful.  "By  listening,"  she  said  at 
last.  "By  escaping  from  the  noise  of  material  life.  Material 
life  is  not  Real." 

"It's  the  only  reality  we  have,  our  brains  and  bodies  and 
senses  to  measure  by." 

Mrs.  Welles  shook  her  head.  "No.  Our  brains  and  bodies 
and  senses  are  not  the  ultimate  reality.  It  is  something  else, 
something  almost  impossible  to  put  into  words,  something 
you  must  feel." 

"But  how  can  you  feel  without  your  body?" 

"By  leaving  your  body  behind  and  going  into  Silence.  Then 
you  Know.  You  Feel  it,  you  See  it,  you  Touch  it." 

On  the  last  words,  Hilda  came  in,  fresh  and  gay  from  a 
walk  with  Rogie. 

"Touch  what?" 

"Peace  and  reality,"  Anne  said  with  a  faint  smile. 

Hilda  looked  puzzled. 

"We  were  talking  of  faith,"  Charlotte  explained,  "and  the 
absolute  certainty  you  get  in  Silence." 

"Oh,  yes,"  Hilda  nodded.    "Just  getting  away  from  a  racket 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         175 

does  help.  Why,  I  used  to  feel  sometimes  when  the  children 
were  small,  and  it  rained  so  they  had  to  play  in  the  house, 
that  I'd  go  frantic  with  them  tearing  round  getting  in  my 
way,  when  I  had  a  lot  to  do.  I  broke  down  once  and  the 
doctor  told  me  to  take  things  easier,  so  after  that  I  used  to 
go  into  my  own  room  with  a  novel  every  day  for  an  hour 
and  lock  the  door.  It  helped  a  lot." 

Anne  caught  the  twinkle  in  Charlotte's  eyes  and  returned 
it. 

"I'd  forgotten  all  about  it,"  Hilda  went  on.  "But  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  that  wouldn't  be  a  good  thing  to  keep 
up.  Do  you  do  it?" 

"I  don't  take  the  novel,  but  I  try  to  get  quiet  some  part 
of  every  day." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  could  do  it  without  a  book.  There 
doesn't  seem  to  be  anything  to  think  about  when  you  just 
sit  down  and  try  to  think." 

"Don't  try  to  think.  Don't  try  to  do  anything.  Just 
relax." 

"Good  gracious,  I'd  have  to  crochet  or  something.  I'd  feel 
wicked  sitting  like  that  wasting  the  time." 

"It's  the  one  thing  that  isn't  wasting  time.  It's  getting 
at  the  only  thing  in  Life  worth  getting  at." 

"Is  it?  Well,  I  must  say  if  you  can  keep  your  house  look- 
ing the  way  it  does  and  find  time  to  sit  round  doing  nothing, 
nothing  at  all,  I  guess  there's  something  in  it.  I  don't  know 
but  what  I'll  try  it  sometime." 

"Perhaps  you'd  understand  better  if  you  didn't  'try  it' 
alone." 

"But  I'd  feel  so  silly  relaxing  with  other  people  looking 
at  me." 

"Other  people  wouldn't  be  looking  at  you.  They'd  be  quiet 
too.  There's  a  terrific  force  in  many  people  being  quiet  to- 
gether." 

"  'Many-people-being-quiet-together,'  "  Anne  whispered. 

"Well — if  I  were  sure  they  weren't  paying  any  attention," 
Hilda  spoke  with  mounting  excitement,  as  if  about  to  venture 
an  intoxicating  drink,  not  quite  certain  of  its  after-effects. 

"You  know  that  any  time  you  care  to  come  with  me," 
Charlotte  suggested,  "I  shall  be  glad.  Our  meetings  always 
close  with  a  few  moments  of  utter  stillness." 

"Maybe  I  will.    I'd  like  to  see  it." 


176         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Next  Sunday  we're  going  to  have  one  of  the  Boston  Board 
of  Lecturers  out.  If  you  like,  I'll  call  up  for  you.  About 
half  past  three?" 

"That's  just  the  time  I  never  know  what  to  do  with  my- 
self. I'd  like  to." 

But  the  following  Sunday  when  Charlotte  came,  Hilda  had 
not  returned  from  an  outing  with  Rogie. 

"She  must  have  forgotten  all  about  it,"  Anne  explained. 
"She  did  say  something  about  taking  Rogie  to  the  Park,  but 
I  thought  she  would  be  back  in  time.  She's  been  talking 
about  Silence  all  the  week." 

Mrs.  Welles  laughed  and  turned  to  go.  She  was  a  little 
late  already.  "Perhaps  the  outing  will  do  her  just  as  much 
good.  Besides  she  can  come  some  other  time.  It  makes  no 
difference." 

In  a  moment  Charlotte  would  be  gone  and  there  would  be 
nothing  for  Anne  to  do  but  sit  as  she  had  sat  for  the  last 
hour,  staring  out  into  the  deserted  street,  listening  to  the  wind 
and  the  heavy  breathing  of  her  father  asleep. 

"Perhaps  you  would  take  me,  instead,"  Anne  said  in  a  sudden 
need  to  escape  from  this  stillness  that  had  no  force  or  peace 
in  it.  "Papa  will  be  all  right  and  mamma  won't  be  long 
now." 

"Certainly.  Could  you  be  ready  in  ten  minutes?  There's 
sure  to  be  a  crowd  and  I  like  to  walk.  It  gets  me  in  the  mood 
more  than  riding  in  a  crowded  car." 

Anne  went  quickly  from  the  room  and  was  back  again  in 
five  minutes.  "I'll  just  leave  a  note  for  moms  or  she'll  won- 
der what's  happened." 

She  scribbled,  "Gone  with  Mrs.  Welles,"  and  pinned  the 
paper  on  the  wall. 

They  walked  quickly  in  a  silence  that  rested,  so  that,  by 
the  time  they  reached  the  church,  Anne  no  longer  felt  the 
need  of  this  escape  and  wished  she  had  not  come.  But  as 
she  had  herself  suggested  it,  she  did  not  know  how  to  retreat 
now  and  followed  Charlotte  through  the  iron  gate  and  up 
the  wide  graveled  path,  with  reluctant  curiosity  and  a  hope 
that  the  service  would  not  be  long. 

The  church  was  a  low,  gray  stone  building,  covered  with 
ivy,  standing  back  from  the  street  on  a  lawn,  undisturbed 
bx  shrubs  or  flowers.  Its  leaded  casement  windows  and 
outer  door  of  heavy  oak  studded  with  nails,  gave  a  feeling  of 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         177 

age  and  great  strength.  Silently  swinging  doors  led  from  the 
wide  vestibule  into  the  body  of  the  building,  which  was  cov- 
ered with  thick  soft  carpet  that  deadened  all  sound.  Across 
the  foot  of  the  platform,  stretching  the  width  of  the  room, 
great  branches  of  oak  and  huckleberry  broke  the  hardness  of 
line  and  filled  the  room  with  a  faint  odor  of  living  greenness. 
Half-way  down  the  aisle,  they  stopped  and  then,  with  no 
rustle  of  disturbance,  Anne  found  herself  seated  in  the  center 
of  the  row.  Mrs.  Welles  took  a  leaflet  from  the  rack  before 
her  and  Anne  looked  about. 

She  had  had  no  clear  idea  of  what  such  a  gathering  would  be 
like,  but  now,  as  she  studied  the  faces  of  those  within  her 
range,  she  marveled  at  their  likeness.  There  were  old  and 
young,  men  and  women,  but  they  all  looked  to  have  gone 
through  a  process  that  had  dissolved  their  personal  differences. 
They  all  sat  quietly,  their  bodies  in  repose,  their  faces  calm. 
They  were  neither  eager  nor  indifferent.  No  doubt  or  un- 
certainty disturbed  them.  Anne  could  conceive  of  no  opposi- 
tion that  would  sweep  them  to  anger.  No  power  could  force 
from  these  well-dressed,  cultured  bodies  the  cry  of  rage  that 
lashed  the  audiences  of  Black  Tom  O'Connell. 

Here  there  were  no  slovenly  clothes,  no  stunted  bodies,  no 
stormy,  foreign  eyes.  They  had  found  their  Peace  and  held 
it  with  well-bred  restraint.  They  were  sure,  not  waiting; 
positive,  not  patient.  Before  this  sureness,  Katya's  was  the 
certainty  of  an  elemental  force  striving  through  obstacles  to 
prove  itself  in  creation.  This  surety  was  the  after-calm,  when 
God,  having  labored  to  create  a  world,  stood  back  satisfied  and 
said:  "It  is  good."  It  was  restful  in  a  way  but  had  something 
of  the  same  supreme  aloofness. 

The  side  doors  of  the  platform  opened.  Two  men  and  a 
woman,  dressed  in  white,  took  the  three  vacant  chairs  be- 
hind the  hedge  of  green.  A  hymn  was  announced  and  the 
audience  rose.  Verse  after  verse  they  sang  of  gloating  peace 
and  furious  good-will.  Protected  by  the  music,  their  calm 
at  last  broke  through  restraint,  and  flung  itself  aloft  in  an 
abandon  their  composed  bodies  never  would  have  allowed. 
Anne  felt  the  peace  about  her  crack  like  thin  ice  and  dis- 
appear. 

When  the  Reader  advanced  to  the  rostrum  and  the  reading 
of  the  day's  selections  from  the  Scriptures  and  from  Science 
and  Health  began,  Anne  held  her  patience  by  an  effort.  Be- 


178         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

fore  the  colossal  discovery  of  Mary  Baker  Eddy,  the  old 
Hebrew  Prophets  were  little  children  searching  in  the  dark. 
Again  and  again,  the  name  of  Mary  Baker  Eddy,  uttered  in 
unctuous  pride  of  possession,  struck  at  Anne's  resolve  to  give 
tolerant  attention,  until  she  felt  her  own  lips  forming  the 
words  in  the  respectful  pause  which  invariably  preceded  them. 
The  old  woman  herself  might  have  been  peeping  from  a  door, 
counting  these  ordered  references,  tabbing  them  against  a 
possible  omission.  But  the  trained  Reader  never  forgot,  at  the 
appointed  places  he  gave  her  due,  in  perfection  of  delivery 
that  set  him  aside  from  others,  made  him  the  special  mes- 
senger of  the  exaggerated  optimism  of  Mary  Baker  Eddy. 
When  he  had  finished  he  sat  down,  in  quiet  withdrawal,  and 
the  Boston  Lecturer  took  his  place. 

With  bowed  head,  the  Boston  Lecturer  stood  for  a  moment, 
in  silence  receiving  the  silent  applause,  spirit  greeting  spirit. 
He  was  a  middle-aged  man,  his  slim  alertness  padded  to  suave 
courtesy  by  prosperity;  not  the  obtrusive  prosperity  of  Mr. 
Benjamin  Wilson,  but  an  unobtrusive  prosperity,  like  a  bank- 
book bound  in  morocco  to  stimulate  a  book  of  poems.  He 
made  sweeping  statements  of  incredible  facts,  in  a  slow  care- 
ful way  that  claimed  a  long  process  of  logical  analysis  to 
which  they  had  never  been  subjected.  He  spoke  fluently,  as 
if  he  had  said  the  same  things  many  times,  but  inserted  un- 
expected pauses,  direct  demands  that  gave  the  impression  of 
deep  concern  for  this  special  audience;  a  willingness  to  give 
them  personally  of  his  great  abundance. 

At  the  end  of  twenty  minutes,  he,  too,  sat  down.  A  faint 
motion  marked  the  loosened  tension  of  his  hearers.  The  meet- 
ing was  thrown  open  to  testimony.  Men  and  women  rose  to 
relate,  in  nauseating  detail,  illnesses  from  which  they  had 
been  cured  by  Divine  Truth.  Tumors,  cancers  and  wasting 
weaknesses  had  been  alleviated,  instantly  in  some  cases,  by  a 
reading  of  Science  and  Health  with  a  Key  to  the  Scriptures 
by  Mary  Baker  Eddy.  The  listeners  radiated  affirmation. 
If  they  had  ever  possessed  the  power  to  doubt,  it  had  long 
ago  been  buried  under  the  weight  of  Science  and  Health  with 
a  Key  to  the  Scriptures,  by  Our  Revered  Leader,  Mary  Baker 
Eddy. 

At  last  those  eager  to  testify  grew  fewer.  The  Reader 
looked  over  the  hall  to  find  no  one  standing.  The  Boston 
Lecturer  rose  again  and  named  the  solo  to  be  sung  by  the 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         179 

woman  in  white.  She  came  forward  in  her  turn  to  the  edge 
of  green  and  Anne  sat  back,  disappointed  to  the  point  of 
tears.  The  woman  sang  well,  but  Anne  did  not  hear.  After 
the  solo  would  follow  the  five  minutes  of  Utter  Silence.  Anne 
wished  that  she  could  get  up  and  slip  away.  Why  had  she 
come? 

And  then,  so  silently,  so  swiftly  that  she  long  afterwards 
recalled  this  moment  as  one  in  which  she  must  have  lost  con- 
sciousness, Anne  felt  herself  swept  out  upon  a  Silence,  so  deep, 
so  profound  that  there  was  no  room  within  it  for  doubt  or 
antagonistic  withholding.  Without  a  break,  as  if  a  great 
curtain  had  suddenly  and  noiselessly  been  rolled  back,  the 
whole  hall  moved  into  stillness.  It  was  not  a  thing  that  de- 
scended upon  them.  It  was  a  state  into  which  they  passed. 
The  terrific  wave  of  silence  carried  Anne  with  it;  caught 
her  on  the  pinnacle  of  its  huge  curve  and  dropped  her  gently 
into  a  peace  so  profound  and  so  real  that  Anne  felt  it  laving 
the  whole  surface  of  her  body.  Something  within  slipped 
beyond  the  tight  hold  of  her  will,  escaped  from  the  encasing 
body  in  which  she  had  gripped  it,  claimed  its  own  and  fled  into 
Peace. 

The  rustle  of  others  brought  Anne  back.  She  got  up  and 
followed  Charlotte  Welles  through  the  groups  smiling  and 
shaking  hands  and  agreeing  on  the  wonders  of  the  Boston 
Lecturer.  She  was  glad  that  Mrs.  Welles  did  not  stop  but 
went  directly  out,  and  hoped  Charlotte  would  not  ask  her 
about  the  meeting.  She  could  not  talk  of  it.  And  yet  these 
unmagnetic,  unvital,  bewildered  people  had  within  themselves 
this  tremendous  power.  Close  to  Charlotte  Welles  she  walked 
in  silence,  angry  at  their  possession  of  it. 

Gradually  Anne's  mood  dulled.  Exhausted  by  her  own 
emotion,  she  felt  spiritually  weak  and  drained.  In  her  reac- 
tion, she  could  have  dropped  to  sleep.  She  stifled  a  yawn 
and  knew  that  Charlotte  had  seen.  But  it  didn't  matter. 
Without  mention  of  the  meeting,  Anne  left  Mrs.  Welles  at  the 
door  and  went  upstairs. 

At  her  step,  Hilda  looked  up  from  the  cake  she  was  slicing 
and  laughed. 

"I  never  did  a  thing  like  that  before,  but  do  you  know,  it 
never  entered  my  head.  I  took  Rogie  to  the  Park  and  was 
giving  him  a  ride  in  the  goat  carriage  when  it  struck  me,  all 
of  a  sudden,  that  I'd  promised  her.  It  was  four  then,  but  I 


i8o        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

came  right  straight  back  home,  although  I  knew  it  was  too 
late." 

"You  might  just  as  well  have  stayed." 

"I  suppose  I  might.  Oh,  well,  we  had  a  lovely  time.  Rogie 
was  as  good  as  gold.  How  did  you  like  it?  Is  there  anything 
in  it?" 

"Not  for  me,"  Anne  said  wearily. 

"I  thought  as  much.  Still,  I  wish  I  could  believe  it.  I'd 
like  to  get  rid  of  that  sciatica  and  no  liniment  touches  it." 

"But  if  you  are  a  scientist,  momsy,  you  don't  have  sciatica; 
and  if  you  have  sciatica  you're  not  a  scientist.  So  they  get 
you  coming  and  going." 

"I  suppose  they  do,"  Hilda  agreed  placidly.  "Besides,  I 
haven't  tried  that  salt  and  bacon  grease  the  delicatessen 
woman  told  me  of.  I'll  do  that  to-night." 

But  the  sciatica  was  miraculously  cured  without  the  bacon 
grease  or  Science.  It  disappeared  that  very  evening  with  a 
cablegram  from  Belle.  She  sent  a  hundred  dollars  and  said 
she  was  starting  for  home.  At  intervals  all  evening  Hilda 
read  the  message.  By  nine  o'clock  the  hundred  dollars  had 
been  stretched  to  include  a  dozen  things. 

"And  a  wheel-chair  for  papa,"  she  concluded. 

"Not  if  you  buy  those  other  things,"  Anne  warned,  strug- 
gling to  keep  Hilda's  imagination  within  some  kind  of 
bounds. 

"Are  chairs  very  expensive?" 

"They're  sure  to  be.  Perhaps  you  could  get  a  second-hand 
one." 

"Perhaps  we  could." 

There  was  a  long  pause  and  then  Hilda  asked:  "Annie, 
do  you  suppose  that  papa — do  you  think  he  will  be  able — 
it  would  be  silly  to " 

Anne  looked  quickly  away.  "I  don't  know,  mamma,  let's 
ask  the  doctor." 

"I  don't  know  just  how  to  do  it,"  Hilda  whispered.  "But 
really,  Annie,  if  he  couldn't  use  it,  it  would  be " 

"A  waste,"  Anne  finished. 

But  it  was  another  week  before  the  doctor  found  time  to 
include  this  useless  visit  in  his  busy  round.  He  came  in  mid- 
afternoon,  as  James  Mitchell  waked  from  his  after-luncheon 
nap.  He  stayed  chatting  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  and  wrote 
a  new  prescription  to  make  the  sick  man  feel  that  everything 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         181 

possible  was  being  done.  As  he  left,  Hilda  drew  him  into  the 
kitchen. 

"He  seems  brighter,  doctor,  don't  you  think  so?" 

"Yes.  You're  good  nurses.  His  general  health  is  wonder- 
fully good." 

Hilda  looked  at  Anne,  the  unasked  question  in  her  eyes,  but 
Anne  refused  to  put  it.  Not  until  the  doctor  was  drawing  on 
his  gloves,  did  Hilda  face  it. 

"How  long,  doctor — is  there — always  a  second  stroke — 
how ?" 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Mitchell,"  he  said  with  his  professional 
smile,  "please  ask  me  something  I  can  tell  you.  After  all, 
you  know,  we  doctors  are  not  prophets.  I  have  known  the 
strokes  to  follow  each  other  within  a  very  short  time  and 
sometimes  they  are  years  apart.  In  fact,  sometimes  the 
patient  never  has  another  and  dies  of  some  quite  other — com- 
plication. The  only  thing  to  do  is  rest,  quiet  and  diversion." 

After  he  had  gone,  Hilda  said  thoughtfully: 

"I  wonder,  if  I  went  straight  down  town  now,  whether 
they  could  get  a  chair  here  to-night." 

"You  might  try." 

"I  believe  I  will." 

Just  at  dusk,  they  brought  it,  a  comfortable  chair  on  wheels, 
with  a  little  rack  for  books,  a  tiny  adjustable  side  tray,  and 
a  footrest.  Hilda  lit  both  gas  jets  in  the  bedroom  and  Anne 
wheeled  herself  gayly  in.  This  unusual  game  covered  over  the 
presentation  long  enough  to  get  James  settled,  and  then  the 
added  comfort  and  independence  hid,  for  the  moment,  his 
terrible  need. 

No  one  knew  that  James  Mitchell  cried  that  night  when 
the  excitement  was  over. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 

HOUR  after  hour,  day  after  day,  the  train  raced  on, 
away  from  the  smoke-wrapped  slums  of  great  cities, 
from  great  stretches  of  the  earth  torn  open  for  men's  greed, 
from  the  mills  where  little  children  slaved  to  accumulate  the 
wealth  of  those  whom  they  would  never  see.  On  and  on, 
over  the  sun-soaked  earth,  across  black,  fat  land;  clean  and 
empty  desert;  past  lonely  farms;  little  towns,  isolated  from 
the  inimical  immensity  about  them  by  their  fenced  gardens, 
their  paved  streets  and  electric  lights.  Above  the  prairie  flat- 
ness, the  gilded  domes  of  their  courthouses  boomed  pompously 
of  law  and  order,  and  the  tapering  spires  of  churches  pricked 
the  blue  sky  to  attract  the  attention  of  God. 

Long  after  the  rest  of  the  car  was  asleep,  Roger  sat  on 
the  observation  watching  the  distant  lights  break  through 
the  thick  blackness,  come  near,  recede,  disappear.  Something 
was  so  desperately  wrong.  There  was  so  much  land,  so  few 
owners.  So  much  wealth,  so  many  poor.  Myriads  lived  and 
died,  that  a  few  might  enjoy.  That  a  few  might  own  the 
earth,  millions  upon  millions  tore  it  apart,  herded  in  unclean 
cities,  built  uncanny  machines  to  speed  the  process  of  ac- 
cumulation. 

When  at  last  the  train  dropped  over  the  snowy  crest  of  the 
Sierras  and  plunged  down,  down  past  clear  mountain  lakes, 
forest  fringed,  down,  down  into  the  richest  land  of  all,  Roger 
felt  as  if  something  had  hardened  and  shaped  to  new  purpose 
within  him.  Nothing  in  all  the  world  mattered  but  to  help; 
to  slave  too,  and  die  trying  to  even  the  chances  a  little. 
When  the  ferry  docked  and  the  hills  of  the  city  rose  misty 
in  the  salt  fog  creeping  across  their  tops,  Roger  felt  older 
and  full  of  a  stronger  faith  than  he  had  ever  had. 

And  he  wanted  Anne  and  Rogie.  They  were  so  small  and 
helpless  and  the  world  was  so  cruel.  He  had  been  impatient 
lately  with  Anne,  but  he  did  not  feel  now  that  he  would  ever 
be  impatient  again.  He  wanted  them  and  the  quiet  little 
house  on  the  hill. 

182 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         183 

Half  an  hour  later  he  rang  the  Mitchell  bell  and  Anne 
peered  from  the  dim  light  above. 

"It's  me,"  he  called  gayly  and  went  up  the  stairs  three  at 
a  time.  But  before  he  could  take  Anne  in  his  arms  or  kiss 
her,  a  warning  gesture  motioned  him  to  quiet. 

"Papa's  only  just  gotten  to  sleep  and  if  he  wakes  now  he'll 
get  all  fussed  up  and  nervous.  It's  been  a  bad  day." 

She  tiptoed  past  the  partly  open  door  of  the  sick  room  and 
Roger  felt  the  darkness  within  reach  through  and  chill  hia 
eagerness.  He  had  not  telegraphed  purposely  to  take  Anne 
unawares.  He  had  pictured  holding  her  in  his  arms  and  kissing 
away  the  memory  of  their  last  meeting  in  a  new  effort  at 
nearness  and  understanding.  Anne  led  the  way  to  the  kitchen 
and  closed  the  door  noiselessly.  The  gas  was  not  lit  and 
through  the  open  back  door  the  fog  was  stealing  swiftly  from 
the  hills.  A  silent  tidal  wave,  it  was  sweeping  directly  upon 
himself  and  Anne  standing  together  in  the  dim  dusk.  In 
a  moment  it  would  break  over  the  thick,  black  silence  of  the 
house  and  engulf  them  in  its  chill. 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  know,  Roger?  I  hadn't  the  least 
idea." 

What  would  have  been  her  greeting  if  he  had?  Perhaps 
a  wire  to  tell  him  to  be  sure  and  come  up  the  back 
stairs. 

"I  wasn't  positive  I  could  make  it.  Such  a  lot  of  delays 
turned  up.  I  expected  once  to  be  here  last  week.  How's 
Rogie?  I  suppose  he's  asleep." 

"For  hours.    Shall  I  wake  him?" 

"N-o — no,  of  course  not." 

Roger  moved  to  the  back  door  and  closed  it.  The  fog 
was  so  stealthy,  so  uncannily  conscious,  an  inimical  spirit  re- 
leased to  stifle  himself  and  Anne  in  its  silence.  As  he  turned 
again  Anne  struck  a  match  to  light  the  gas-taper  but  he 
stopped  her.  He  could  conceal  his  disappointment  better  in 
the  dark. 

"Don't  light  the  light,  unless  you  want  it.  I  like  it — dark 
— after  the  last  weeks.  It  was  so  noisy  and  glaring  and  dirty 
most  of  the  time." 

Anne  put  the  taper  back  on  its  hook.  "I  like  it  this  way, 
too,"  she  said  in  a  detached  tone  that  drew  Roger's  attention 
sharply.  It  was  the  voice  of  some  one,  not  at  all  concerned 
with  present  reality,  scarcely  conscious  of  its  surroundings. 


1 84        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

It  was  as  lonely  and  detached  as  a  wisp  of  the  fog.  He  went 
nearer  to  her. 

"How  is  your  father?     Better?" 

"Yes.     He's  better  on  the  whole,  in  some  ways  at  least. 

But "    Anne  shivered.    "It's  terrible,  watchJng  some  one 

die;  that's  what  it  really  is.  He  may  live  for  years  like  this, 
good  days  and  then  a  bad  day — but — all  the  time — he  is 
really  dying — dying  every  day — a  little  bit — dropping  apart — 
until — hs  drops  away  altogether  over  the  Edge." 

She  was  turned  to  him,  but  her  eyes  strained  past  to  the 
chasm  beyond  the  Edge,  and  her  hands  were  clenched  as  if 
she  would  hold  the  old  man  from  it. 

Roger  put  his  arm  about  her,  but  Anne  stood  stiffly  within 
his  hold,  seeing  only  the  terrible,  slow  progress  of  her  father 
to  the  grave.  But  to  Roger,  it  was  not  terrible  that  one  old 
man,  criminal  in  his  narrowness  and  stupidity,  was  slowly 
dying  in  the  same  dull  way  he  had  lived.  There  was  a  mag- 
nificent poetic  justice  in  it — the  little  gray  mole,  creeping 
blindly  through  life,  now  creeping  blindly,  selfishly  toward 
death.  Men  in  their  prime  poured  their  strength  into  the  fiery 
pits  of  the  steel  mills;  the  slums  of  great  cities  battened 
on  the  babyhood  of  thousands;  here,  in  the  comfort  of  his 
home,  one  uninteresting,  unimportant  human  unit  was  dying. 
He  had  contributed  nothing  to  life.  He  would  leave  no  un- 
fillable  space  behind  him.  Even  his  own  wife  would  not 
sincerely  mourn  him,  nor  would  the  faintest  ray  of  beauty 
be  dimmed  in  any  life  by  his  going.  Impatience  touched 
Roger,  although  he  still  held  Anne  and  quietly  stroked  her 
hair. 

"You  mustn't  think  about  it  like  that.  Your  father  isn't 
old,  but  he  isn't  young,  either.  He  has  had  the  average  length 
of  life.  We  all  have  to  die." 

"Why?"  Anne  whispered  fiercely. 

Before  the  mills  debouching  their  hundreds  at  set  hours, 
the  miles  upon  miles  of  sordid  streets,  Roger's  eyes  saddened. 

"I  don't  know — unless  it  is  to  make  more  room." 

"Then  why  not  go  now — every  one,  quickly  and  cleanly — • 
instead  of  rotting  into  it?" 

"Suicide?  No.  Not  until  you're  sure  anyhow  that  you 
can't  do  anything  to  make  it  better.  It  can't  be  the  purpose 
of  life,  this  horrible  chaos,  like  the  panic  at  a  fire,  with  the 
stronger  treading  down  the  weak." 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         185 

Anne  shivered.  "The  strong — as  you  call  them — have  been 
treading  on  the  weak  since  the  beginning  of  time  and  will  go 
on  to  the  end.  If  it  would  all  stop — just  for  a  day,  an  hour 
— not  a  human  being  on  the  face  of  the  earth — not  a  sound 
— just  silence.  Perhaps  we  could  hear  then — if  there's  any- 
thing to  hear." 

"Anne!  You're  getting  morbid.  What  do  you  do  here  all 
day?  How  many  times  a  week  do  you  get  out?'* 

"Whenever  I  want  to.    I'm  not  tied  here." 

"You  might  as  well  be,  if  you  take  no  more  advantage  of 
your  freedom  than^you  look  to  have  done.  You're  thinner, 
Anne,  a  lot  thinner.  And  I  don't  like  it." 

The  old  man  in  the  other  room  was  thinner,  too,  so  thin 
that  Anne  could  feel  his  shoulder  blades  when  she  put  her 
arm  round  to  help  him. 

"I  don't  think  so.    I  feel  all  right  anyhow." 

"You  couldn't  possibly — and  look  the  way  you  do.  Haven't 
you  heard  from  Belle  yet?" 

"Yes.  She  cabled  a  hundred  dollars.  We  bought  papa 
a  wheel-chair." 

Across  the  wheel-chair,  Anne  felt  the  thought  leap  to 
Roger's  brain.  They  should  have  hired  some  one  to  help 
with  James.  She  should  have  rested  and  taken  walks  and 
kept  herself  in  condition  for  his  coming.  Like  a  valuable 
animal  for  his  master's  pleasure.  She  moved  from  Roger's 
hold,  understanding  of  his  resentment  in  her  eyes. 

"He  can  get  out  on  the  back  porch  now  when  it's  sunny." 

"That's  nice,"  Roger  said  indifferently.  "When  is  Belle 
coming  back?" 

"In  a  few  weeks.    She  cabled  from  Genoa." 

"Are  you  going  to  stay  until  she  comes?" 

"No — I  don't  think  so — not  unless  you're  going  away 
again." 

"I'm  not  going  away  that  I  know  of." 

"Then  I'll  be  home  to-morrow.  I  can't  very  well  to-night 
because  I  made  mamma  go  to  Pinafore  with  Mrs.  Welles.  She 
won't  be  back  till  twelve  and  I  can't  leave  papa  and  Rogie." 

"No,  of  course  not."  There  was  a  short  self-conscious 
pause  and  then  Roger  said : 

"Does  His  Highness  get  that  'daddy'  any  better  than  he 
did?  I  don't  suppose  so,  just  because  I  feel  I've  been  away  a 
year." 


"Oh,  yes,  he  does.  He  says  it  quite  distinctly.  And  he 
makes  a  weird  noise  that  papa  insists  is  'grandpa'." 

They  both  smiled.  For  an  instant  they  had  met  in  Rogie. 
Once  more  Roger  tried  to  reach  to  Anne. 

"I  often  wished  that  you  could  have  come  with  me.  It  was 
a  wonderful  experience." 

"It  must  have  been.    Did  you  have  a  good  trip?" 

"Yes.  We  swung  the  convention.  But  the  rest  of  it — 
Anne,  it's  terrible.  They're  so  thwarted  and  driven!  Mil- 
lions of  human  beings  with  never  a  real  rest,  never  all  they 
need  to  eat,  and  worse  than  all — no  hope,  not  even  under- 
standing, so  many  of  them.  Down  in  the  social  mud  they're 
crawling,  thousands  upon  thousands,  like  lower  forms  of  life, 
not  undeveloped,  but  being  pushed  back,  down  the  scale  of 
humanity.  Human  beings — going  backward!" 

But  no  thrill  of  anger  gripped  Anne.  What  did  it  matter 
whether  one  went  forward  or  backward,  since,  in  the  end  all 
dropped  in  death.  Roger  and  Black  Tom  spoke  as  if  this  life 
were  the  purpose  of  creation;  the  personal  comfort  of  the 
individual  the  apex  of  creation's  effort;  while  all  the  time, 
behind  this  violence  of  adjustment,  Death  stood  indifferent 
to  their  misunderstanding.  Across  the  confusion  of  living, 
Death's  shadow  lay,  penetrating  to  consciousness  in  moments 
of  illness;  in  the  stillness  of  dawn;  in  moments  of  physical 
exhaustion,  when  the  weary  body  for  an  interval  ceased  its 
demands  and  something  within  yearned  toward  its  own  with- 
out; in  rare  moments  like  the  massed  silence  that  had  swept 
Anne  into  peace.  Death  was  the  Great  Silence,  the  ever- 
lasting Peace. 

"I  know,"  she  said  absently. 

"You  don't  know,"  Roger  broke  out  passionately.  "We 
have  no  conception  of  it  out  here.  The  land  itself  is  too  rich, 
the  mountains  and  the  sun  and  sea  are  too  emotional.  We're 
all  drugged  with  the  beauty  of  the  land.  We  have  no  slums, 
no  poverty  as  they  have  it  in  New  York  and  Chicago  and 
Philadelphia.  We  have  graft,  oppression,  rotten  politics,  in- 
difference, all  the  symptoms  of  the  disease,  but  the  ghastly, 
running  sore  itself  we  do  not  see.  Broiling  heat  in  summer, 
freezing  cold  in  winter,  twice  every  year  adjusting  the  mere 
physical  machinery  of  life  to  climate — a  scramble  for  coal  in 
the  winter;  for  ice  and  air  in  summer;  thousands  of  people 
herded  in  a  single  block,  hundreds  of  families,  packed  like 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         187 

sardines  in  a  can;  layer  on  layer  of  life  in  one  rotting  build- 
ing! Two  men  for  every  job.  Millions  of  bewildered  insects 
crawling  over  each  other  to  find  a  little  morsel  to  pick  from 
the  carcass." 

His  voice  had  risen  and  Anne  motioned  him  hastily  to 
lower  it. 

ult's  terrible,  dear,  but  please  don't  wake  papa.  He  has 
to  have  all  the  sleep  he  can  and  if  he  wakes  now  he'll  have 
a  hard  time  getting  to  sleep  again." 

The  old  man  in  the  next  room  must  not  be  wakened!  He 
was  indeed  the  great,  safe,  sane,  middle-class  incarnate. 
James  Mitchell  and  his  daughter  Anne!  With  her  "It's 
terrible,  dear." 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  go  straight  home,  you're 
tired  out,"  Anne  suggested  after  a  short  silence. 

Roger  shrugged.  "I'm  not  tired,  not  bodily  tired.  I  couldn't 
sleep  if  I  went  home." 

Remembering  the  tomb-like  stillness  of  which  Roger  had 
complained,  Anne  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"I'll  come  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  Roger.  Now 
papa  has  the  chair,  it  helps  such  a  lot.  I'll  come  up  two  or 
three  afternoons  a  week,  but  I  don't  really  need  to  be  here 
steadily." 

"Don't  come  unless  you  feel  you  want  to,"  Roger  said 
dully  and  moved  to  the  door.  He  opened  it  cautiously,  no 
need  to  warn  him  now.  They  tiptoed  to  the  stair  head,  kissed 
perfunctorily,  and  Anne  watched  him  to  the  door  which  he 
closed  noiselessly.  The  next  moment  the  chug  of  a  starting 
motor  drew  Anne's  attention  and  she  hurried  to  a  front  win- 
dow. A  taxi  was  just  leaving,  the  driver's  head  bent  to  catch 
Roger's  instructions. 

He  had  come  in  a  taxi,  kept  it  waiting,  and  now  was  going 
back  in  it! 

"And  he  thinks  he's  consistent,"  Anne  whispered  with  quiet 
bitterness.  "Dollars  wasted  and — 'thousands  never  have 
enough  to  eat.' " 

She  watched  the  taxi  out  of  sight  and  went  slowly  back  to 
the  kitchen. 

She  was  still  sitting  there  in  the  dark  when  Hilda  came. 
At  her  mother's  step,  Anne  jumped  up  and  lit  the  light,  other- 
wise she  would  have  to  explain  or  invent  an  excuse  for  sitting 
in  the  dark.  No  one  understood  without  words.  The  small- 


1 88         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

est  act  had  to  be  dragged  out,  cut  up  into  speech  and  put  to- 
gether like  an  intricate  puzzle.  And  then  it  was  not  really 
understood. 

Radiantly  gay,  her  curls  damp  and  tight  with  the  fog, 
Hilda  bustled  in. 

"You  just  lit  the  light,  didn't  you?  I  thought  I  saw  it 
go  up." 

"Did  you?    How  was  the  show?" 

"Anne,  it  was  too  funny  for  words.  I  haven't  enjoyed  a 
thing  so  for  years.  You  must  see  it.  There's  a  matinee  to- 
morrow. I'll  feel  selfish  if  you  don't." 

"Maybe  I  will,  sometime  before  it  goes.  It'll  be  here  a 
week.  But  I  can't  to-morrow.  Roger's  home." 

Hilda's  gayety  vanished.  "Oh,"  she  said  forlornly,  "I  sup- 
pose you'll  be  going,  then." 

"Yes.    To-morrow,  I  think." 

Hilda  took  off  her  things  and  they  had  some  hot  cocoa. 
In  its  warmth,  her  cheerfulness  returned.  To-morrow  her 
freedom  would  be  gone.  But  to-morrow  was  to-morrow. 

"Really,  Anne,  I  never  laughed  so  much  in  my  life.  That's 
the  funniest  thing  that  ever  was  written." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX 

HE  next  day  Anne  went  home  and  the  following  Mon- 
day  was  back  in  the  loft.  A  long  period  of  stagnant 
waiting  had  ended  in  a  new  burst  of  hope  and  the  place 
vibrated  with  the  rush  of  people  going  and  coming.  Like  the 
three  prongs  of  a  huge  fork,  Black  Tom,  Roger  and  Katya 
caught  up  on  their  unflagging  faith  and  indefatigable  energy 
the  smaller  plans  and  physical  limitations  of  those  about 
them. 

Often  Anne  came  from  a  revery  to  find  that  her  hands 
had  been  idle  on  the  keyboard  for  a  long  time.  There  was 
no  safe,  quiet  spot  anywhere  in  life.  The  surface  at  every 
point  was  heaving,  just  as  the  surface  of  the  earth  had  heaved 
and  cracked  on  the  day  of  the  Great  Quake,  torn  open  by 
forces  within  itself.  Until  then  the  earth  had  been  the  most 
stable  thing  in  the  universe.  Sun  and  moon  came  and  went; 
stars  gleamed  and  died  away;  rain  beat  upon  it  and  the  wind 
swept  over  it,  but,  to  human  sense,  the  old,  old  earth  was 
still.  And  then,  in  a  moment,  without  warning,  its  patience 
exhausted,  it  had  risen  and  like  an  angry  giant,  struggled 
to  hurl  aside  the  pigmies  crawling  upon  it.  Anne  had  never 
forgotten  that  feeling,  as  the  earth  began  to  rock,  the  feeling 
of  being  grasped  and  personally  shaken  by  a  malignant  force 
beyond  her  power  to  propitiate,  a  force  growing  more  and 
more  furious,  illimitable  in  its  anger.  In  a  moment  it  might 
release  her  or  it  might  go  on  forever  until  it  had  annihilated 
every  living  thing. 

There  was  no  permanence,  no  sureness,  no  stability,  no 
stillness  anywhere.  Often  Anne  closed  her  machine  and  slipped 
away  unable  to  endure  the  noise  and  confusion.  But  out  upon 
the  streets  the  noise  and  confusion  continued.  People  hur- 
ried everywhere.  Cars  clanged  by  obeying  many  desires  to 
go  in  many  directions.  Newsboys  shrieked  their  announce- 
ments of  murders,  explosions,  and  terrible  deeds  of  violence. 
Sometimes  Anne  sought  quietness  by  the  sea,  but,  gripped  in 

189 


190         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  law  of  ebb  and  flood,  the  sea  roared  or  moaned  or  whim- 
pered to  its  degree  of  strength. 

As  the  weeks  passed,  the  longing  for  a  place  of  stillness,  one 
little  spot  of  silence,  grew  to  a  desperate  need.  She  must 
have  it.  Somewhere  it  must  exist,  this  small  place  of  peace 
where  she  could  stop  for  a  moment.  She  thought  of  the 
meeting  to  which  she  had  gone  with  Charlotte,  but  when  she 
visioned  the  interval  that  preceded  filled  with  the  assertions 
of  false  optimism,  the  hymns  of  gloating  joy,  the  sickening 
testimony,  she  could  not  face  them.  Then  the  silence  had 
caught  her  but  Anne  knew  that  if  she  sought  it  deliberately 
in  these  surroundings  it  would  escape.  Perhaps,  somewhere 
else,  in  other  faiths,  if  she  searched  she  would  find  it.  Anne 
began  to  search. 

And  now,  that  all  her  thought  was  turned  to  find  Silence, 
she  found  others  seeking,  too.  Some  sought  silence  in  costly 
edifices,  beautiful  with  stained  glass  and  priceless  paintings. 
Others  in  public  halls,  cozily  furnished  rooms,  rickety  build- 
ings. In  offices  that  did  double  service,  where  Business  and 
Silence  alternated  like  opposing  armies  occupying  the  same 
fortress  successively. 

There  were  Services  of  Silence  conducted  by  men  and  serv- 
ices by  women.  Some  built  a  vestibule  of  music  and,  in 
the  beautiful  vestments  of  ancient  orthodoxy,  walked  slowly 
through  to  the  treasure  room  of  Stillness.  Others,  in  the  com- 
mon garb  of  everyday,  entered  without  prelude.  Some  plunged 
from  the  roar  of  traffic  into  Silence  as  if  it  were  a  bath; 
others  went  through  little  personal  rituals  of  reading  and  bodily 
posturing,  as  if  to  steal  upon  it  unawares. 

Old,  old  faiths  claimed  silence  as  their  own,  and  conceded 
reluctantly  to  the  modern  scramble  in  simple  statements  of 
the  hour  and  place  they  offered  it.  Like  a  conservative  firm 
reluctant  to  meet  the  modern  need  of  advertising,  they  offered 
this  staple  so  long  a  specialty  of  their  own.  New  faiths 
shrieked  of  Silence  as  if  it  were  a  food  to  be  eaten  instantly 
before  it  cooled. 

"A  half-hour  of  Silence,  from  twelve  to  twelve-thirty," — 
like  the  professional  card  of  a  reputable  physician;  and 
"Come  and  be  Quiet  With  Us";  "Learn  the  Power  of  Silence"; 
"Be  Still  and  Know" — the  paid  advertisement  of  a  hustling 
quack. 

Anne  sought  but  could  not  find.     The  stained  glass  and 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         191 

wide  arches  of  the  churches;  the  few  cozily  placed  chairs  of 
ordinary  rooms  were  as  glaring  in  their  claims  as  the  thick 
carpet,  the  heavy  oaken  door  and  casement  windows  of  the 
little  gray  stone  church.  The  solemn  music,  the  sentimental 
texts  upon  the  walls,  as  artificial  as  the  modulated  voice  of 
the  Trained  Reader  and  the  bowed  head  of  the  Boston  Lec- 
turer. 

Outwardly  Anne  grew  quieter  and  quieter.  Sometimes  she 
saw  Katya  watching  her  with  a  mingling  of  triumph  and 
curiosity  that  would  have  interested  her  deeply  six  months 
before.  Now,  nothing  interested  her.  Not  even  the  de- 
pendence of  Rogie  held  her  to  the  exclusion  of  this  growing 
need  to  find  a  place  of  peace.  Once,  Rogie  had  seemed  to 
fill  every  need,  but  now  Anne  knew  within  herself  something 
over  and  above  the  power  of  any  person  or  situation  quite  to 
fill.  It  had  always  been  so.  In  her  love  for  her  mother  and 
Belle,  there  had  been  the  empty  spot  of  longing  for  a  wider 
life  and  deeper  interests.  Then  Roger  had  come,  with  the 
wider  life  and  deeper  interests,  but  the  tiny  empty  spot  had 
remained,  the  very  core  of  herself  that  had  never  melted  into 
Roger's.  Now,  she  and  Roger  could  scarcely  see  each  other 
across  the  space  of  separation. 

Concerned  with  the  pain  of  the  world,  Roger  strode  on, 
confusing  the  force  of  his  own  effort  with  the  accomplish- 
ment of  results.  When,  early  in  spring,  he  won  the  case  of 
a  Hindoo  revolutionist,  he  was  as  excited  as  Rogie  at  a  new 
toy.  He  came  shouting  down  the  loft,  and  because  Katya 
was  out,  and  he  had  to  share  this  enthusiasm  with  some  one, 
came  to  Anne. 

"Singh's  been  released.  They  couldn't  make  their  case. 
We've  got  them  on  the  run."  Perched  on  the  railing  about 
Anne's  desk,  he  swung  his  feet  like  an  excited  boy.  "Of 
course  England  will  chase  him  out  of  India  again,  but  he'll 
get  in  some  deadly  licks  before  she  does.  Gosh,  but  I'd  like 
to  be  there  to-day.  Think  of  it,  that  slip  of  a  fellow,  stirring 
up  that  old  race,  prodding  it  out  of  its  centuries  of  sleep." 

But  Anne  did  not  see  that  old  race  rising  from  its  sleep. 
At  most  it  would  be  only  a  little  turning,  as  Rogie  turned 
and  then  settled  to  deeper  sleep.  She  shrugged:  "He  will 
prod  and  then  die." 

"What  of  that?     It  doesn't  nullify  his  accomplishment. 


i92         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

Suppose  millions  more  still  have  to  do  it.  Can't  you  get  the 
romance — if  nothing  else?" 

Anne  smiled  faintly.  "That's  just  what  I  do  get — millions 
of  sleepers — in  an  ageless  sleep."  Across  the  room,  Black  Tom 
was  the  center  of  an  excited  group,  elated  at  the  success  of 
Singh.  A  messenger  boy  dashed  in  with  a  telegram.  Two 
telephones  rang  wildly.  "It's  like  a  little  child  with  a  horn," 
she  said  quietly,  "blowing  because  he  likes  to  hear  the  noise 
himself." 

Roger's  hands  clenched  and  he  dropped  quickly  from  the 
railing. 

"You've  got — just  about  as  much  imagination — as  a  flea." 

Anne  shrugged.  "Since  you  don't  know  the  extent  of  a 
flea's  imagination,  your  figure  hasn't  much  force,  has  it?" 

Roger  turned  away  and  Anne  went  on  with  her  work. 

At  two  o'clock  she  left  the  office  and  went  to  the  flat. 
But  even  here  she  was  not  needed  as  she  once  had  been.  On 
her  return,  Belle  had  installed  a  practical  nurse  three  after- 
noons a  week  to  relieve  Hilda,  and  the  woman  had  filled  Anne's 
place  completely.  Anne  went  on  the  days  she  did  not  come, 
but  she  felt  her  in  Hilda's  accounts  of  how  "she  rests  papa 
and  manages  him  to  perfection,"  and  in  James'  constant 
references  to  things  she  said  or  did  for  him.  Now  that  there 
was  no  need  to  fill  hours  with  chatter,  Anne  missed  the  need. 
The  empty  relationship  with  her  father  was  emptier  than 
before. 

In  the  vacuum  of  her  isolation,  Anne  began  to  watch  her 
thoughts,  until  she  came  to  see  them  as  minute  machines,  in- 
stalled within  her  brain  by  some  outside  power,  clicking  away 
independent  of  her  will.  A  power  was  working  out  some  ex- 
periment with  her,  using  her  brain  as  if  it  were  a  dark  room 
for  the  development  of  a  film.  Without  emotion  Anne  watched 
the  negative  develop.  She  grew  absorbed  in  the  process.  She 
often  asked  Roger  to  repeat  a  statement,  and  then  sat  mo- 
tionless, watching  its  reaction,  as  if  it  were  a  stone  he  had 
dropped  into  the  well  of  her  intelligence.  With  judicial  ex- 
actness she  weighed  the  most  trite  remark,  until  conversation 
with  Anne  became  impossible. 

Roger  escaped  it  when  he  could.  Night  after  night,  he 
stayed  on  at  the  office  and  Anne  ate  her  dinner  alone.  Or 
he  returned  to  work  immediately  after  dinner,  always  courte- 
ous and  insincere  in  his  excuse.  Anne  saw  the  insincerity  but 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         193 

never  resented  it.  She  was  glad  to  have  Roger  go.  When  he 
stayed  there  was  nothing  real  to  talk  about  and  the  effort  of 
making  conversation  with  Roger  was  more  exhausting  than 
the  lonely  evening. 

It  was  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  after  several  such  evenings 
in  succession,  that  Anne  sat  pretending  to  read  in  her  favorite 
place,  a  cushioned  settle  under  the  window  that  gave  on  the 
bay  and  hills  beyond.  It  was  a  still  day  of  little  wind,  but 
a  dry,  high  fog  hid  the  sun.  It  was  three  o'clock,  the  dreariest, 
the  least  personal  of  any  hour  of  the  day.  The  feeling  of 
youth  that  morning  has  was  gone.  The  positiveness  of  eve- 
ning and  lighted  lamps  had  not  yet  come. 

Roger  had  gone  to  the  office  in  the  morning,  read  for  a 
little  after  lunch  and  was  now  asleep  in  the  darkened  room 
beyond,  Rogie  in  the  crib  beside  him.  But  he  would  not 
sleep  much  longer.  Rogie  would  probably  wake  when  he  did 
and  Roger  would  play  a  while  with  him.  Then,  unless  Roger 
went  to  a  meeting,  they  would  sit,  each  absorbed  or  feigning 
absorption  in  his  reading:  Roger  in  some  legal  or  economic 
work  of  vast  pretension,  Anne  in  her  novel,  a  thing  so  far 
from  life  in  the  maudlin  sentimentality,  spread  like  soft  icing 
over  the  relation  between  the  man  and  the  woman,  that  it 
would  better  have  been  frankly  a  fairytale.  About  them 
the  silence  of  the  dead  hour  would  close  and  they  would  sit 
in  peace  as  false  as  the  stillness  of  the  churches  and  small 
meeting  rooms. 

Anne  thrust  her  book  aside.  If  she  went  out  to  walk,  the 
Sunday  streets  would  echo  the  tread  of  others  trying  to  kill 
the  day  in  the  same  way.  At  the  flat  James  would  be  asleep 
in  his  chair,  Hilda  napping  in  the  dining-room.  Anne  leaned 
forward,  her  elbows  on  the  sill,  her  chin  in  her  palms.  The 
Bay,  flat  and  gray  as  if  it,  too,  were  exhausted  from  the 
week's  work,  stretched  to  the  fog-crowned  hills.  Under  the 
pall,  the  Sleeping  Beauty  on  Tamalpais  had  passed  to  eternal 
rest.  The  commanded  peace  of  the  Seventh  Day  shut  like  a 
cover  of  lead  upon  the  world. 

Only  Charlotte  Welles  could  move  beneath  such  grayness, 
unconscious  of  its  deadening  weight.  She  would  be  walking 
now,  with  her  short,  quick  steps,  straight  to  the  peace  she 
entered  at  her  will.  Anne  moved  uneasily,  like  a  sick  person 
resisting  a  desired  opiate.  Perhaps,  if  she  went  once  again, 
and  tried  not  to  hear  the  hymns  or  the  testimonies  or  the 


194         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

selected  readings,  if  she  slipped  into  the  back  seat,  just  before 
the  meeting  closed,  she  might  yet  grasp  the  secret  and  have  it 
for  her  own. 

In  the  room  beyond,  Rogie  cried  and  Roger  woke.  She 
heard  him  lift  the  baby  from  its  crib  and  in  a  moment  they 
were  laughing  together.  Then  the  blind  went  up  with  a 
noisy  spring,  and  Roger  came  out,  rested  and  carrying  the 
delighted  Rogie  in  his  arms. 

"There,  you  little  fake."  He  deposited  the  baby  on  the  rug 
before  the  fire,  threw  a  piece  of  wood  which  caught  instantly 
in  gay  little  tongues  of  flame,  and  laughed  at  Rogie's  clumsy 
efforts  to  reach  them  through  the  screen.  But  Anne  did  not 
see  them.  She  was  looking  at  Roger's  back,  at  the  rumpled 
hair  and  slightly  creased  shirt,  with  faint  distaste. 

Roger  removed  his  son  to  safer  distance,  stretched  and 
crossed  to  the  window  on  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"Beastly  day.  I  wonder  how  that  Kenneally  meeting  will 
be." 

Roger  yawned  and,  leaning  against  the  window  sash,  looked 
into  the  gray  stillness  for  an  inspiration.  Rogie,  finding  the 
pretty  flames  inaccessible  and  himself  deserted,  puckered  his 
face  for  a  cry,  which  Anne  diverted  just  in  time  by  cuddling 
him  to  her  and  kissing  his  bare  toes. 

Roger  turned  listlessly  from  the  window,  took  a  cigarette 
from  the  brass  box  on  the  mantel  shelf,  and  began  to  walk 
up  and  down. 

"Are  you  going?    It's  at  four,  isn't  it?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know — I  haven't  decided  yet.  Kenneally  isn't 
much  of  a  speaker." 

He  might  not  go.  The  afternoon  would  shut  heavy  upon 
them.  She  could  not  face  it.  She  carried  Rogie  into  the 
bedroom  and  closed  the  door.  She  dressed  first  and  then 
dressed  Rogie.  If  Roger  did  decide  to  go,  she  did  not  wish 
to  prevent  him  by  leaving  the  baby  on  his  hands.  A  few 
moments  later,  carrying  Rogie,  delighted  at  the  prospect  of 
going  out,  but  objecting  strongly  to  his  bonnet,  which  he  tried 
to  remove  by  vicious  tugs,  Anne  came  into  the  living-room. 
Roger  was  in  his  chair  now,  an  open  book  on  his  lap.  He 
looked  up  surprised  at  Anne,  dressed  to  go  out. 

"I'll  take  him,  so  you  needn't  stay  in  if  you  want  to  go 
to  the  meeting." 

"Going  up  to  the  house?"    He  was  sure  she  was  because 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         195 

Anne  never  went  anywhere  else  on  a  Sunday,  but  he  always 
mentioned  her  coming  and  going  with  kindly  formality. 

"No.    I'm  going  to  church." 

"To  church!" 

Anne  drew  on  her  gloves  and  nodded. 

"What  church?" 

"Christian  Science." 

"What!"  Roger  barked  the  word  in  exasperated  astonish- 
ment. 

"The  Christian  Science  Church,"  Anne  said  with  madden- 
ing composure,  as  if  she  were  disciplining  a  child  for  its  harsh 
voice. 

Roger  closed  his  book  and  rose.  "Are  you  a  Scientist 
now?" 

"No." 

"Then  what  do  you  want  to  go  and  listen  to  that  driveJ. 
for?" 

Anne  did  not  answer  and  moved  to  the  door.  Roger  stepped 
quickly  in  front  of  her. 

"How  many  times  have  you  been?" 

Anne's  face  flamed  with  the  ugly,  brick-red  flush.  Her 
body  tightened  and  she  looked  scornfully  at  Roger. 

"I  shall  be  late  as  it -is,"  she  said  stiffly.  "Please  let  me 
pass." 

"I  won't."  Roger  knew  that  his  anger  was  carrying  him 
to  rudeness,  but  Anne's  manner  rasped  him  beyond  control. 
Behind  Anne,  he  saw  the  subtle,  low-voiced  influence  of 
Charlotte  Welles.  A  Christian  Science  wife,  believing  in  the 
muddled  effusions  of  a  sick  old  woman;  for  all  he  knew  prac- 
ticing her  ridiculous  faith  upon  him.  Lost  in  a  stupid  philos- 
ophy that  denied  disease  and  poverty,  Anne  dared  to  look 
in  scorn  at  Black  Tom,  at  Katya,  at  Singh,  at  himself.  With 
a  quick  movement,  Anne  passed  him  and  laid  her  hand  on 
the  door-knob. 

"You  sha'n't  go,"  he  cried,  white  with  anger. 

"I  shall  go  where  I  please,"  Anne  answered  quietly,  "I 
don't  interfere  with  you.  You  can  go  to  your  meeting,  listen 
to  your  own  particular  brand  of  'drivel,'  pump  up  the  enthu- 
siasm of  a  few  dozen  people  who  don't  know  what  else  to  do 
with  themselves  on  a  Sunday  afternoon.  At  least,  the  few  mil- 
lion Scientists,  more  or  less,  in  the  world,  haven't  had  their  be- 
lief manufactured  and  forced  down  their  throats." 


Roger's  anger  died.  He  reached  for  Rogie,  and  before  Anne 
knew  what  had  happened,  holding  the  baby  firmly,  Roger 
stood  aside. 

"You're  right.  You  don't  interfere  with  me.  But  Rogie 
doesn't  go." 

It  was  Anne  now  who  flamed  to  anger.  Standing  upon  her 
tiptoes  she  snatched  for  the  baby,  who,  thinking  it  was  a  new 
kind  of  game,  wound  his  hands  in  his  father's  thick  hair  and 
kicked  with  joy. 

"Give  him  to  me,"  she  commanded  in  a  cracked  whisper. 

Roger  stepped  back,  for  between  himself  and  Anne  clutch- 
ing for  their  child,  the  old  Anne  stood  upon  her  tiptoes  defying 
John  Lowell. 

"No,  Rogie  does  not  go."  He  turned  and  went  silently 
back  to  the  fire  and  sat  down,  Rogie  clinging  to  his  neck. 
For  a  moment  Anne  stood  motionless  in  an  anger  that  seemed 
to  have  frozen  her  to  the  bone.  Then,  with  a  sob  that  was 
a  cry  of  hate,  she  opened  the  door  and  went  quickly. 

Until  it  was  dark,  Anne  walked  up  one  street  and  down 
another.  She  passed  mean  houses  where  families  sat  at  dinner 
behind  partly-drawn  blinds,  and  stately  homes,  the  intimacy 
of  family  life  decorously  concealed  behind  thick  curtains.  She 
did  not  know  when  the  high  fog  parted  and  the  stars  came 
out,  but  when  the  sky  was  all  a-glitter  and  a  soft  little  wind 
ruffled  the  bay,  she  found  herself  sitting  on  a  pile  of  lumber 
at  the  farthest  jetty  of  Fisherman's  Wharf.  The  lighted  fer- 
ries lumbered  cheerfully,  the  fishing  boats  grated  softly  on 
the  piles.  A  few  yards  behind,  in  the  new  warehouse  of 
Giuseppe  Morelli,  a  group  of  fishermen  laughed  and  chattered 
while  they  mended  their  nets  against  the  turn  of  the  tide. 

Beyond  the  wharf,  on  the  rocky  crest  of  a  hill,  she  could 
just  glimpse  the  cottage  light.  She  looked  at  it  for  a  long 
time  without  emotion.  She  was  cold  and  calm.  Nothing 
could  ever  again  stir  her  to  anger  or  feeling  of  any  kind. 

The  wind  freshened.  The  men  began  climbing  down  into 
their  boats.  With  much  calling  back  and  forth,  the  boats 
pushed  off. 

Anne  left  the  wharf  and  went  slowly  up  the  steep,  silent 
streets.  At  the  foot  of  her  own  stairs  she  stopped  and  looked 
at  her  watch.  It  was  five  minutes  after  eleven. 

The  light  in  the  cottage  was  out,  the  fire  lay  a  handful  of 
smoldering  embers.  The  room  was  rather  cold  but  she  was 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         197 

not  conscious  of  its  chill  although  she  stood  for  some  time 
listening  to  the  even  breathing  of  Roger  asleep  in  the  next 
room.  Then  she  crept  into  the  bedroom,  undressed  and  got 
noiselessly  into  bed.  At  its  warmth,  she  shivered  as  if  touched 
by  something  unclean.  But  in  a  few  minutes  she  was  asleep, 
worn  by  her  long  walk  and  the  storm  of  anger  and  despair. 

In  the  dawn,  Roger  woke,  and,  turning  slightly,  looked  at 
Anne.  She  was  sleeping  as  always,  on  her  side,  her  cheek 
pillowed  on  one  arm;  small,  exquisitely  fair  and  utterly  un- 
moving.  Roger  looked  at  her,  almost  with  surprise  that  she 
should  be  there.  And  then  aversion  to  Anne's  body  gripped 
him.  He  did  not  want  to  touch  her  or  be  near  her.  Never 
again  of  his  own  impulse  would  he  wish  to  hold  her  in  his 
arms  or  kiss  her. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN 

WINTER  came,  a  dry  winter  of  cool  mornings  and  nights, 
and  days  of  clear  sunshine.  Against  this  sparkling  back- 
ground, Anne  and  Roger  moved  side  by  side  in  almost  total 
silence.  Anne  still  went  to  the  loft  but  not  regularly.  Roger 
never  asked  why  she  stayed  away  or  what  she  did  with  her  time. 
He  worked  now  far  into  the  night,  often  even  after  Katya  had 
gone  with  a  comforting,  indifferent  "good  night."  Sometimes 
they  left  together  and  Roger  walked  as  far  as  her  car  with  her, 
talking  of  their  plans,  never  of  personal  things.  If  she  no- 
ticed that  Anne  no  longer  came  regularly  to  the  loft,  she  never 
mentioned  it,  nor  did  she  make  any  comment  when  Anne 
ceased  coming  at  all. 

It  was  in  February  that  Rogie  had  an  attack  of  croup  and 
Anne  stayed  away  for  two  weeks.  When  he  was  well  she  did 
not  return.  On  the  first  night  of  his  illness  she  had  moved  his 
crib  into  the  wing  of  the  living-room  they  called  a  library  and 
this  arrangement  was  maintained.  She  bought  a  screen  of  silk 
and  lacquer  and  converted  the  wing  into  a  comfortable  bed- 
room. Roger  made  no  comment.  For  a  few  days  their  eyes 
held  consciousness  of  the  change  and  then  they  spoke  indiffer- 
ently of  "your  room"  and  "my  room." 

On  the  evenings  when  Roger  was  home,  Anne  usually  re- 
tired first.  Behind  the  impregnable  wall  of  silk  and  lacquer, 
Roger  heard  the  soft  swish  of  her  garments  as  she  dropped 
them,  then  the  even  breathing  of  her  sleep.  For  a  little  while, 
after  their  forced  nearness  in  the  illness  of  Rogie,  Roger  would 
sometimes  close  his  book,  and,  with  tightening  muscles,  glare 
at  this  thing  of  silk,  or  stare  before  him,  trying  to  find  a  clew 
through  the  present  to  the  past. 

When  had  it  all  begun? 

Farther  back  than  the  day  that  Anne  had  snatched  at  Rogie. 
Much  farther  back  than  that.  Perhaps,  back  at  the  very  be- 
ginning, when  Anne  had  been  afraid  to  tell  her  people.  But 
when  Roger  visioned  again  the  Indian  graveyard,  the  weeks 

198 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         199 

by  the  lake,  the  Basque  herder  playing  his  flute  in  the  sunny 
meadow,  the  clinging  of  Anne's  lips  that  last  night,  and  mo- 
ments in  their  first  months,  the  clew  vanished  in  hurt  wonder. 

If  moments  like  those  were  not  real,  what  was?  If  a  cer- 
tainty as  real  as  the  certainty  that  had  come  to  him  in  the 
sweeping  wind  on  the  Bluff  was  false,  what  was  true? 

Had  their  nearness  even  then  held  within  itself  the  germ 
of  discord?  Had  this  erosion  of  difference,  that  had  at  last 
eaten  its  way  down  to  their  physical  relationship,  always 
existed  between  himself  and  Anne?  Did  it  exist  between  all 
men  and  women,  and  was  that  marvelous  nearness  only  a  cloak 
over  the  stark  skeleton  of  sex?  The  hunger  once  appeased, 
was  the  purpose  satisfied,  and  did  the  soul  demand  this  sepa- 
rateness  for  its  own  development?  Was  marriage  only  the 
lowering  of  an  ideal  beyond  the  average  man  and  woman 
to  reach? 

At  farther  and  farther  intervals,  the  puzzle  held  him.  Then, 
wonder  settled  to  acceptance.  Roger  no  longer  heard  the 
swish  of  Anne's  garments  or  her  breathing  behind  the  screen. 
He  came  from  the  office  pleasantly  tired  and  was  content  with 
the  wide  coolness  of  the  big  bed  and  freedom. 

But  his  mouth  grew  firmer  and  his  eyes  lit  less  often.  Like 
a  copy  done  in  fainter  wash,  his  eyes  at  times  had  the  loneli- 
ness of  Black  Tom's.  Katya  watched  and  found  it  harder 
and  harder  not  to  go  to  him  on  the  nights  they  worked  alone. 
Often  after  they  had  separated,  and  Katya  sat  in  the  ugly  hall 
bedroom  that  had  been  her  home  for  years,  she  would  clench 
her  fists  and  pound  the  washstand  as  if  it  were  a  rostrum  and 
she  were  addressing  a  crowd: 

"It  had  to  come,  with  that  little  fool.  She- couldn't  hold  him 
back.  He  will  grow  now." 

But  when,  stealing  a  glance  toward  Roger,  she  saw  him 
staring  out  across  the  loft  with  lonely  eyes,  she  would  have 
had  him  happy  at  any  price.  To  have  his  enthusiasm  bubble 
over  in  gayety  as  it  used  to  do,  to  feel  him  warmly  happy, 
Katya  would  have  freely  given  the  years  that  remained. 
Standing  at  that  terrible  spot  of  middle  ground,  the  future 
clear  in  the  light  of  the  past  and  perfect  knowledge  of  self, 
looking  back  down  the  lonely  years  indifferently,  through  the 
future  lonelier  still,  nothing  mattered  but  to  have  Roger 
happy. 

At  last,  one  night  in  early  April,  a  warm  night  of  many  stars, 


200         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

Katya  rose  from  her  machine  and  went  to  Roger  sitting  mo- 
tionless at  Black  Tom's  desk.  It  was  late  and  the  others  had 
all  gone  long  ago.  As  Katya  took  a  seat  on  the  window  sill, 
Roger  looked  up,  not  concerned  at  all  with  this  action  of 
Katya's  but  with  the  confusion  of  his  own  thought.  He  had 
gone  home  to  dinner  that  night,  stirred  by  the  soft  spring 
warmth,  to  make  an  effort  at  some  kind  of  adjustment  with 
Anne.  They  had  slipped  so  far  now,  to  almost  quarreling 
over  the  most  trivial  things.  To-night  Anne  had  objected  to 
the  way  he  sat  at  the  table  and  asked  with  plaintive  primness 
if  the  world  would  be  saved  any  more  quickly  if  every  one 
slouched  over  his  plate  like  a  plow-hand.  And  he,  in  blind 
rage  to  smash  that  primness  to  bits,  had  deliberately  done 
things  to  annoy  her,  until  he  felt  the  disgust  in  Anne's  eyes 
flick  him  like  whips.  The  remainder  of  the  meal  had  been 
eaten  in  hasty  silence  and  he  had  left  immediately  after. 

What  a  thing  to  quarrel  over! 

Katya  smoked  through  her  cigarette  and  then  said  slowly: 

"Why  do  you  go  on?" 

So  perfectly  did  it  fit  with  Roger's  thought,  that  he  an- 
swered with  no  wonder  at  her  understanding. 

"I  don't  know." 

There  was  a  short  silence  before  Katya  added:  "You  ought 
never  to  have  married  her." 

"I — suppose  not.  But  it  seemed "  Roger  broke  off,  dis- 
turbed at  discussing  Anne  with  another.  He  shrugged  and 
made  a  motion  as  if  to  go  on  with  his  work.  But  he  felt 
Katya's  look  on  him,  and,  after  a  moment,  met  it.  Her  con- 
cern was  too  deep  for  insincerity  and  he  said  thoughtfully: 

"Love  is  a  queer  thing.  One  thinks  it  is  going  to  last  for- 
ever and  bear  any  weight.  Perhaps  the  very  weight  of  the 
years  themselves  must  break  it." 

Katya  made  a  strange  noise  deep  in  her  throat,  as  if  the 
words  were  cracking  their  way  through  some  obstruction. 

"Love  does  bear  any  weight — love,  but  nothing  else.  Only 
there  is  so  little  love  and  so  few  find  it.  What  the  world  calls 
love  is  a  flash  of  desire — a  Catherine  wheel  of  emotion,  Life's 
urge  to  continue  tricked  out  in  finery,  like  an  old  woman 
dressed  in  silk.  Fools.  They  understand  nothing.  They  are 
afraid  of  truth,  everywhere.  To  excuse  the  suffering  in  the 
world,  the  human  cruelty  of  man  to  man,  they  have  invented 
the  patient,  anemic  Christ.  The  fact  of  sex  they  have  hung 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         20 1 

over  with  the  ornaments  of  matrimony.  And  of  Love  they 
know  nothing,  nothing  at  all." 

Katya  had  turned  while  she  spoke  and  was  looking  out  now 
through  the  open  window  to  the  light-strewn  city.  Seen  so, 
in  profile,  the  thickness  of  feature  was  thinned  to  hardness. 
It  seemed  to  Roger,  for  a  moment,  that  Katya  had  never  been 
born,  would  never  die.  She  was  like  her  own  steppes,  stretch- 
ing away  beyond  the  weariness  of  human  sight,  unhurt  by  the 
rage  of  men.  She  was  eternal  truth  and  courage. 

"Perhaps.  But  if  you're  not  one  of  the  rare  few?  We  have 
been  as  happy  as  most  people." 

"And  now  you  are  content  to  be  as  miserable  as  most  peo- 
ple. To  go  on  year  after  year,  dragging  at  each  other,  quar- 
reling, making  up,  hating,  despising,  driven  sometimes,  by  a 
force  beyond  you — to — to — mocking  Love." 

"Don't,"  Roger  whispered.  "Don't.  You're  exaggerating. 
One  adjusts  to  anything  in  time." 

"Yes.  And  then  there  is  no  strength  left  for  anything  else — • 
and  spiritually — you  die.  You  will  die.  You  are  weaker  than 
she  is,  because  there  is  no  force  so  unbreakable  as  the  rigidity 
of  self-righteous  mediocrity.  You  will  die — in  this  'adjust- 
ment,' slowly  perhaps,  as  thousands  of  others  have  died,  some- 
times men,  sometimes  women,  whichever  has  the  finer  soul. 
'It  is  easier  for  a  camel  to  pass  through  the  eye  of  a  needle, 
than  for  a  rich  man  to  enter  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.'  But  a 
camel  goes  easier  through  the  eye  of  a  needle  than  a  high  pur- 
pose breathes  with  a  smaller  fastened  upon  it.  Adjust  and 
die." 

Katya  threw  the  stub  of  her  cigarette  violently  out  the 
window  and  then  leaned  from  it  to  watch  the  tiny  red  spark 
expiring  on  the  black  tarred  roof  below. 

"What— can— I  do?" 

Katya's  brain  despised  the  question  and  her  arms  ached 
for  Roger. 

"Do?    Leave.    Demand  your  own  life." 

"Leave  Anne!" 

Katya  shrugged.  Why  did  she  love  this  boy  looking  at  her 
like  a  frightened  baby? 

"Do  you  want  to  go  on  like  this  forever?" 

The  future  opened  before  Roger,  all  the  years  to  the  end 
faced  by  the  lacquer  screen,  the  almost  silent  meals,  the  never- 
ceasing  need  for  watchfulness,  artificial  and  unfree. 


202         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

"No,"  he  said  slowly.    "No." 

"Then  don't." 

"There's— Rogie." 

With  a  broken  laugh,  Katya  got  down  from  the  window  sill. 

"And,  in  a  few  years,  there  will  probably  be  others.  Then 
your  'duty'  will  be  still  clearer." 

She  clumped  away  and  a  moment  later  Roger  heard  her 
heavy  step  going  down  the  stairs.  He  stayed  for  another  hour, 
staring  out  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT 

NOW  that  he  had  worded  aloud  the  idea  of  leaving  Anne, 
the  thought  was  always  with  him. 

Spiritual  freedom.  He  wished  for  no  other.  The  man  in 
the  street  might  talk  as  if  sex  were  a  devouring  hunger,  a 
ravening  wolf  ready  to  spring  upon  one  unexpectedly  at  any 
moment.  But  sex  without  companionship  nauseated  him  to 
visualize.  There  might  be  moments — these  he  would  deal 
with  when  they  arose.  Now,  the  wind  of  spiritual  freedom 
carried  no  taint  of  lesser,  fiercer  need. 

How  did  Anne  feel?  Perhaps  she,  too,  would  welcome  free- 
dom. He  had  visioned  restrictions  binding  him  alone.  Per- 
haps Anne,  too,  was  bound. 

The  need  to  know  consumed  Roger's  thought  and  his  impa- 
tience with  smaller  issues.  As  one  forgives  trivial  failings  in 
the  face  of  a  great  crisis,  Roger  grew  strangely  gentle  and 
forbearing.  He  rarely  left  home  in  the  evenings  now,  and  Anne 
often  felt  his  eyes  on  her  questioningly,  as  she  sat  sewing 
under  the  lamp.  For  she  rarely  read;  she  so  often  forgot  to 
turn  the  pages. 

It  was  one  evening,  about  three  weeks  after  he  had  talked 
with  Katya,  that  Roger  looked  up  to  see  Anne  almost  immersed 
under  a  billow  of  white  material.  Usually  Anne's  work  was 
something  small  and  compact,  and  more  than  once  he  had 
traced  fanciful  analogies  between  the  short,  swift  movements 
of  Anne's  needle,  mending  a  jagged  hole  in  a  sock,  and  the 
mental  methods  of  the  world  of  Mitchells.  It  was  with  such 
little  stabs  that  they  attempted  to  draw  together  the  holes  of 
life,  patch  it  for  what? — a  few  more  wearings  at  best.  But  to- 
night, as  if  in  keeping  with  the  wonder  of  Anne's  attitude  to 
freedom,  she  was  engaged  on  larger  work. 

He  laid  his  book  aside  and  asked  with  real  interest: 

"What's  that?" 

Anne  started.  They  scarcely  ever  broke  in  on  each  other's 
occupations  any  more. 

"A  sheet." 

203 


204         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

"A  sheet?  Do  you  make  sheets?  I  thought  you  bought 
them  all  ready." 

"You  do,  if  you  want  to  throw  away  every  one  that  gets  a 
hole  in  it.  But  you  can  cut  them  in  two — they  usually  wear 
in  the  center — and  sew  them  up  again  and  they're  as  good  as 
new  except  for  the  seam." 

Roger  was  disappointed.  No  doubt  it  was  an  excellent 
method,  but  it  annoyed  him.  It  was  so  vehemently  sensible 
and  frugal. 

"It  seems  to  me  that's  mending — in  extremis.  If  we  need 
new  sheets  I  wish  you'd  buy  them." 

"We  don't  need  new  sheets.  These  are  for  mamma.  Hers 
are  almost  all  gone." 

Roger  felt  as  if  he  were  being  quietly  suffocated  in  an  ocean 
of  mended  sheets.  He  sat  looking  at  Anne  until  his  eyes  dis- 
turbed her  beyond  her  power  to  pretend  indifference.  She 
glanced  up,  but  before  she  could  ask  him  why  he  was  so  in- 
terested in  her  sewing,  Roger  spoke. 

"Anne,"  he  said  slowly,  "why  aren't  things  the  same  as  they 
used  to  be  between  us?" 

At  last  it  had  come,  the  thing  that  had  been  moving  to- 
ward her  for  weeks.  It  had  taken  possession  of  her.  The 
matter  was  no  longer  in  her  control. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Neither  do  I,  when  I  try  to  put  it  into  words." 

Anne  threaded  her  needle  in  the  silence  that  followed  and 
bent  again  over  the  hem.  Bent  so,  with  the  light  gilding  to 
the  cool  fairness  of  her,  Roger's  clear-cut  decision  of  the  last 
few  weeks  clouded.  Surely  nothing  so  physically  exquisite  as 
Anne  could  be  empty  of  beauty  within. 

"If — neither — of  us  knows,"  he  went  on,  "it — can't  be  ter- 
ribly serious — can  it?" 

"Then  why  are  we  talking  about  it?"  Anne  asked  stiffly. 

"But  what  is  it?  We — we  both  feel  it  and  yet  you  say 
you  don't  know  either.  But  you  feel  it,  as  well  as  I.  Some- 
thing we  used  to  have  is  gone." 

"Yes.  I  feel  it.  We  haven't  really  anything  at  all,"  she 
added,  as  if  facing  a  fact  Roger  had  avoided. 

"I  tried  to  keep  it,"  he  said  bitterly.  "I  tried  desperately  for 
a  long  time." 

"Did  you?" 

"Yes.    I  did.    But  one  can't  do  those  things  alone."    This 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         205 

was  not  what  he  had  meant  to  say,  but  Anne  was  looking  at 
him  with  such  cool  composure,  so  safe  from  all  touch  of  blame 
in  her  small  assurance  of  having  done  all  in  her  power. 

"No,  of  course  not.  One  can't  do  all  the  understanding — 
alone." 

Roger  felt  his  anger  rising,  and  stood  up,  as  if  by  so  stand- 
ing he  could  reach  the  calm  escaping  him. 

"I  don't  suppose  you  think  I  tried  at  all." 

"I  didn't  say  you  didn't  try.  You  asked  me  if  I  felt  it  and 
I  said  I  did." 

"Well,  have  you  any  suggestion  to  make?"  He  might  have 
been  asking  an  accused  witness  to  submit  proof  of  his  inno- 
cence. 

"No.    I  haven't  any.    Have  you?" 

"We  can't  go  on  like  this.  We  claim  to  be  reasonable  hu- 
man beings  and  we  might  as  well  recognize  the  truth.  We — " 
but  the  words  were  so  final;  like  bullets  to  say — "we  can  sepa- 
rate"— that  Roger  temporized.  "We  must  find  what  it's  all 

about  and  try  to  straighten  it  out  or "  Roger  shrugged 

and  turned  away.  "I  have  tried  to  find  out  what  it's  all 
about." 

"So  have  I."  Anne  went  calmly  on  to  the  end  of  the  seam, 
although  afterwards  she  had  to  rip  out  every  stitch,  for  not 
one  of  them  had  caught  through.  At  the  end  of  the  hem,  she 
looked  up,  fastened  her  needle  in  the  material,  and  said: 

"Then  there  is  no  real  alternative." 

At  the  decision  of  Anne's  tone,  Roger  started. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  you  didn't  quite  like  to  say — we  can  separate." 

"Do  you  mean  that?" 

"If  you  do." 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Whatever  you  do,"  Anne  said  after  a  thoughtful  pause. 
"In  a  situation  like  this,  the  wish  of  one  must  be  the  wish  of 
both." 

The  cold  patience  of  her  explanation  was  maddening. 

"That's  unfair — to  put  it  up  to  me  like  that." 

"I'm  not.  You  put  it  up  to  me  in  the  first  place.  You  say 
we  can't  go  on  like  this  and  the  only  thing  to  do  is  separate." 

"You  said  separate." 

"Don't  quibble."  The  first  impatience  pricked  Anne's  calm. 
"This  isn't  a  witness  stand.  You  said  we  had  to  find  the  trou- 


206         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

ble  or — you  didn't  quite  have  the  courage  to  say  separate,  but 
you  meant  it." 

"If  you  know  so  well  what  I  mean,"  Roger  said  a  little 
sadly,  "why  haven't  you  applied  that  knowledge  more  fre- 
quently? It's  only  when — oh,  what's  the  use?" 

Anne  waited  but  he  did  not  go  on.  "None,  unless  you'll 
speak  plainly.  I  don't  know  what  you're  referring  to." 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  you  do.  You  can  only  interpret  my 
unspoken  thoughts  against  me.  Never  the  other  way  round." 

"Are  we  quarreling?"  she  asked  with  frigid  politeness,  as 
she  might  have  asked  a  detail  of  social  behavior  by  which  to 
regulate  her  action. 

"No,"  Roger  shouted  in  a  need  to  break  through  that  icy 
calm,  "we're  not  quarreling  because  there's  nothing  to  quarrel 
about.  There's  nothing  at  all." 

"That's  where  we  began,"  Anne  rose  and  carefully  folded 
the  sheet  which  she  felt  now  was  the  shroud  of  all  dead  hopes. 
"There's  really  nothing  more  to  be  said,  is  there?" 

She  was  actually  waiting  for  him  to  confirm  this  fact,  put  a 
neat,  rhetorical  period  to  this  immense  finality.  He  did  not 
answer. 

"I  don't  want  to  discuss  this  again.  There's  really  no  need." 
She  put  her  thimble  and  cotton  back  in  the  workbasket  and 
closed  the  lid.  "We've  reached  the  decision.  Haven't  we?" 

After  all,  why  try  to  change  Anne?  She  would  force  the  de- 
cision upon  him.  She  was  right.  It  was  quibbling  to  evade  it. 

"Yes.    I  guess  we  have." 

They  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  each  other  quietly. 
Then,  to  stifle  the  scream  Anne  felt  rising  beyond  her  control, 
she  yawned. 

"Good  night.  There's  no  need  to  keep  on  talking  about  it, 
is  there?" 

"None  at  all.    Good  night." 

She  turned  out  the  light  over  the  sewing  table  and  went 
behind  the  screen.  Her  garments  dropped  with  the  soft  swish. 
Roger  heard  her  open  the  windows  and  get  into  bed. 

He  stood  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  mantelshelf,  his  face  in 
his  hands,  for  what  seemed  to  Anne  an  entire  lifetime. 

In  reality  it  was  not  half  an  hour.  This  was  the  situation  he 
had  been  reluctant  to  face,  had  wasted  weeks  of  thought  upon. 
Anne  seized  the  first  suggestion,  yawned  in  his  face  and  went 
to  bed.  It  was  almost  funny. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-NINE 

THE  next  morning  Roger  went  before  Anne  awoke.  In  the 
afternoon  a  messenger  brought  a  note  asking  to  have  his 
things  sent  to  the  office.  At  dusk  the  express  came  and  Anne 
watched  Roger's  trunk  down  the  stairs  and  the  truck  clang 
away  over  the  grass-grown  cobbles.  When  the  last  sound  had 
died  she  went  in,  fed  Rogie  and  let  him  kick  for  a  while  naked 
before  the  fire.  When  he  crumpled  in  sleep  upon  the  rug, 
Anne  carried  him  to  bed,  to  the  crib  back  now  beside  the  wide 
bed,  hers  alone.  A  little  later  she  was  asleep  beside  him. 

The  hours  heaped  themselves  to  days,  the  days  dropped  un- 
der their  weight  to  nights.  Each  day  was  the  same  as  another. 
Anne  neither  cried,  regretted,  nor  rebelled.  She  did  not  even 
think.  She  seemed  to  be  moving  in  a  clear,  white  light  that 
illuminated  every  cranny  of  the  past,  so  that  the  shadows 
which  had  been  her  thoughts  and  reactions  to  Roger  and  the 
world,  were  now  obliterated  in  this  dazzling  lucidity,  a  light 
so  vivid  and  intense  that  nothing  but  itself  existed,  a  word- 
less understanding  and  acceptance.  Anne  could  not  have  said 
what  it  was  she  so  clearly  understood,  but  she  moved  in  a  petri- 
faction of  calm.  Her  exhausted  nerves  were  dead. 

On  the  tenth  day,  Anne  received  a  short  note  enclosing  two- 
thirds  of  Roger's  salary,  with  the  receipt  for  the  rent  and  the 
electric  bill  and  asking  her  to  make  some  arrangement  for  his 
seeing  Rogie.  On  the  third  reading,  the  meaning  penetrated 
and  Anne  faced  the  future. 

The  clear  white  light  was  gone.  It  was  unclear  and  con- 
fused, filled  with  sudden,  new  needs  and  readjustments.  Roger 
could  not  go  on  sending  her  so  much  of  his  salary.  Nor  did 
she  wish  to  be  dependent  on  him.  If  she  gave  nothing,  she 
would  take  nothing  for  herself. 

She  would  go  back  to  work.  She  would  have  to  sell  her 
brain  and  obedience  again  to  the  highest  bidder,  give  of  her 
best,  suit  her  hours  to  the  order  of  another,  give  to  the  limit 
of  her  power,  always  conscious  of  others  waiting  to  snatch  this 

207 


208         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

privilege  from  her.  Outwardly  her  life  would  be  the  life  before 
she  met  Roger.  Inwardly  it  could  never  be  that  again.  Rogie 
made  it  impossible.  Neither  girl  nor  wife,  Anne  faced  the 
years.  Only  motherhood  was  left. 

Hour  after  hour,  Anne  sat,  tense  and  still,  staring  out  across 
the  garden,  moving  only  to  the  need  of  Rogie.  Unsuspected 
threads  crossed  and  tangled  her  clearest  purposes.  She  would 
go  back  again  into  the  prison  cell  of  some  law  office.  She  would 
begin  again  the  deadening  round  that  had  once  so  disturbed 
Roger.  Now  it  would  not  disturb  him.  From  depths  within, 
anger  rose  at  the  world,  at  life,  at  Roger.  Into  the  pit  of  his 
belief  he  could  throw  all  his  own  energy  and  hope,  even  the 
first  loneliness, — if  he  felt  any, — for  past  material  comfort  and 
little  Rogie.  -  She  had  no  such  pit.  She  would  walk  through 
the  days,  physically  weary,  empty  of  purpose  except  for  Rogie. 
And  he  was  so  little,  his  demands  for  food  and  sleep  and  clean- 
liness, any  kind  woman  could  meet. 

Anne  sat  until  dawn,  the  darkness  within  as  dense  as  the 
night  without.  Not  until  the  first  faint  streaks  of  silver  broke 
in  the  east  did  Anne  see  the  thread  of  a  path  before  her.  She 
could  not  move  on  blindly  into  the  future — a  future  like 
Hilda's  Niche.  To  the  limit  of  her  power,  she  would  straighten 
it,  begin  her  new  life  with  no  thread  running  to  the  past.  She 
would  get  a  legal  divorce,  stipulate  a  small  amount  for  Regie's 
maintenance  and  fixed  times  and  ways  for  Roger  to  see  him. 

Late  that  morning  Anne  went  to  a  lawyer.  As  she  moved 
across  the  outer  office  to  the  door  marked  private  it  gave  her 
an  extraordinary  feeling  of  being  two  people,  in  two  different 
spots  at  the  same  time — Anne  Mitchell,  private  secretary, 
going  to  take  dictation,  and  Anne  Barton,  wife  of  Roger  Bar- 
ton, mother  of  Roger  Mitchell  Barton,  going  to  seek  a  divorce. 

The  lawyer  Anne  had  selected  because  she  had  once  written 
him  a  letter  in  a  case  John  Lowell  was  handling,  was  an  elderly 
man  with  sagging  cheeks,  passion-weary  eyes,  and  a  fastidi- 
ous nicety  of  dress.  Within  the  casque  of  his  manner  and 
clothes,  the  soul  of  man  was  rotted.  His  surprise  at  Anne's 
blond  youth  flashed  for  a  second  in  his  eyes,  and  then  with 
lowered  head,  he  listened  with  professional  interest  while  she 
stated  her  wish  briefly.  When  she  had  finished  he  looked  up. 

"Ah — incompatible,  you  say,  quite  incompatible.  A  great 
pity.  Are  you  sure  you've  given  the  matter  every  possible  con- 
sideration, Mrs.  Barton?" 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         209 

"Every  possible  consideration,"  Anne  said  sharply. 

"Incompatible,"  he  repeated,  and  his  eyes  stripped  from  the 
word  every  meaning  but  the  connotation  of  physical  repulsion. 
Anne's  hands  clenched  and  she  wanted  to  run.  But  where? 
The  world  would  give  this  same  interpretation;  under  all  the 
large  vague  terms  with  which  people  might  cover  them,  this 
would  be  their  thought.  She  turned  her  eyes  quickly  from 
the  eyes  moving  with  pretense  of  deep  consideration  over  her 
flaming  face  and  neck  and  body. 

"Suppose  you  don't  do  anything  definite  for  a  time,  Mrs. 
Barton.  Nearly  all  young  couples — ah — after  the  first  two  or 
three  years — reach  this  point.  It  seems  as  if  the  first  pas- 
sion almost  invariably  runs  its  course  in  that  time  then — 
after  a  period  of  physical  indifference — aversion  often — if  you 
have  intellectual  interests " 

Anne  rose.  "If  you  do  not  wish  to  take  the  case,  please  say 
so.  I  am  not  doing  this  hastily.  I  have  thought  it  over  very 
carefully." 

"Ah — then  there  is  perhaps  nothing  else  to  do,"  he  said 
with  a  sudden  change  of  tone.  He  was  like  a  well-trained  dog, 
refusing  a  bone  until  his  master's  permission  allows  him  to 
snatch  it.  "You  wish  to  institute  proceedings  directly,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"Yes.    I  would  like  you  to  act  right  away." 

"Certainly.  After  all,  Mrs.  Barton,  that  is  the  brave  thing 
to  do — think,  decide  and  act."  His  smile  admitted  Anne  to 
the  regions  of  masculine  logic,  uncluttered  by  the  usual  femi- 
nine sentimentality. 

Ten  minutes  later,  Anne  was  down  again  on  the  street. 
Dazed  as  if  she  had  emerged  into  a  strange  world,  she  walked 
unseeing  in  the  hurrying  stream.  She  had  done  the  one  clear 
thing  to  do  and  yet  she  could  not  shake  off  the  feeling  that  this 
act,  instead  of  ending  a  situation,  had  created  it.  It  had  not 
existed  until  she  had  risen  and  spoken  sharply  to  that  vile  old 
man.  Until  then  she  had  been  alone.  Now  she  had  admitted 
strangers.  Before,  her  inner  life  had  been  her  own ;  now,  every 
one  who  heard  of  the  Barton  divorce  would  share  it.  They 
would  surmise,  and  discuss,  and  nibble  at  her  privacy. 

Anne  walked  slowly  along  in  the  hot  noon  sunshine,  up  the 
hill  to  the  cottage.  This  was  changed,  too.  It  was  like  a 
house,  clean  and  straightened  after  a  funeral,  the  flowers  gone, 
the  extra  chairs  removed.  This  was  divorce  of  which  one 


210        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

spoke  so  carelessly,  this  great  emptiness  to  be  filled  with  un- 
glimpsed  future.  No  one  to  consider  now  but  herself.  Every 
experience  to  be  her  own,  unshared,  unadjusted  to  another.  It 
was  like  the  clearness  of  a  cold  north  wind  that  obliterates  all 
softness,  sharpens  every  outline.  Clear,  cold,  stark,  the  future 
lay  before  her. 

The  next  Thursday  afternoon,  as  usual,  a  little  before  three, 
Anne  let  herself  into  the  flat.  At  this  hour,  James  was  usually 
awake  and  Hilda  busy  warming  the  broth  or  malted  milk  he 
always  took  in  the  afternoon.  But  to-day,  as  Anne  went  up 
the  stairs,  she  felt  a  thick  silence  envelop  her,  and  before  she 
had  reached  the  top,  she  knew  that  they  knew.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  thought  of  slipping  away.  Then  she  went  quietly 
on.  They  would  have  had  to  know  soon.  It  did  not  mat- 
ter. 

In  the  kitchen,  James  Mitchell  sat  in  his  chair,  the  daily 
paper  spread  open  on  the  reading  rack.  Hilda  stood  beside 
him.  They  might  have  been  victims  of  Pompeii,  stricken  at 
their  tasks.  As  Anne  came  quietly  into  the  room  and  stood 
inside  the  door,  Hilda  turned  frightened  eyes  upon  her. 

"What  is  it,"  she  whispered  piteously,  "what  is  it,  Annie? 
It  isn't  true?" 

She  pointed  to  the  paper  and  Anne  knew  how  they  knew. 
The  lawyer  had  indeed  lost  no  time.  Anne  moved  to  the  chair 
and  took  the  paper. 

"Anne  vs.  Roger  Barton,  incompatibility." 

She  laid  the  paper  back  on  the  rack.  "Yes,  it's  true.  Roger 
and  I  have  separated." 

The  old  man  took  the  paper  and  tried  to  tear  it,  but  it  only 
rustled  in  his  futile  striving.  He  pulled  at  it  and  shook  his 
head  and  then,  with  a  supreme  effort,  tore  it  and  rising  a  few 
inches  in  his  chair,  waved  the  torn  pieces  uncertainly. 

"I — won't — have — it — do  you — hear — you  sha'n't — do — : 
this."  His  thick  muttering  choked  him  and  Hilda  began  to 
cry. 

"Don't,  papa,  don't.  It  isn't  good  for  you.  Annie  will  ex- 
plain." 

The  old  man  cried  with  her,  at  first  helplessly  like  a  child, 
then  more  violently.  Anne  took  the  torn  paper  from  him 
and  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Be  quiet,  papa." 

He  shook  her  hold  from  him  and  again  tried  to  speak.    The 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         211 

contortion  was  terrible.  Hilda  put  her  arms  about  him,  the 
effort  strangled  in  a  sob  and  Hilda  held  him  close. 

"There,  there,"  she  murmured,  "don't  cry,  papa." 

As  she  held  him  the  sobs  lessened.  Anne  stood  looking  at 
them,  this  extraordinary  sight  of  her  mother  comforting  her 
father,  both  of  them  locked  together  beyond  her,  opposing 
her;  with  every  scrap  of  their  strength  clutching  their  own 
peace. 

"Please,"  she  began  wearily,  "stop  this  fuss.  If  you  want  to 
talk,  I'll  talk,  but  there's  nothing  to  say.  Roger  and  I  don't 
agree.  That's  all.  We'll  both  be  freer  to  be  ourselves,  apart. 
That's  all,  really." 

"Rub — bish,"  Hilda  sputtered  between  her  lessening  sobs, 
but  a  little  cheered  at  the  familiar  garb  of  a  situation  in 
words.  Silence  terrified  Hilda.  "Nonsense,  Anne.  Freer  to 
be  yourselves !  Nobody  expects  to  be  free  when  they're-  mar- 
ried." 

"Nobody — listens — to — me "  James  began  muttering 

again.  "I — told — you — socialist — anarchist — nobody — in  my 
own — house — I " 

"Don't,  papa,  don't  get  all  stirred  up  again,"  Hilda  patted 
his  head  soothingly.  "You're  getting  along  so  nice  and  the 
doctor  said " 

"To — hell — doctor,"  he  spluttered,  stopped  for  a  moment, 
took  a  deep  breath,  and  said  in  a  quick,  almost  unintelligible 
rush,  "I — won't — have  it — disgrace — everybody — in — office — 
know —  "  his  breath  exhausted,  he  leaned  back  panting,  and 
glared  at  Anne. 

She  returned  his  look  quietly.  In  his  rage  and  weakness 
he  was  not  pitiful,  only  disgusting.  Thin  and  gray  and  un- 
shaven, he  was  like  a  mangy  old  dog,  clinging  to  the  dry  bone 
of  his  respectability.  Icy  nausea  swept  Anne.  The  room  be- 
gan to  move,  to  gyrate  in  mockery  about  her.  She  gripped 
the  wall  with  her  fingers,  and  the  smooth  coldness  gave  her 
strength. 

"Listen,  please,  and  then  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it  any 
more."  She  knew  that  her  words  were  audible  because  they 
were  both  looking  at  her,  but  her  whole  effort  was  concen- 
trated in  uttering  them  and  she  felt  herself  forming  each  sylla- 
ble separately  and  throwing  it  at  the  two  bewildered  people 
before  her.  "We  don't  agree,  and  neither  of  us  wishes  to  live 
like  that;  to  hold  each  other,  for  what?  I  am  economically  in- 


212         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

dependent.  I  can  work.  I  don't  have  to  stay  for  support. 
Roger  will  help  with  Rogie  and  we  will  go  our  own  ways.  We 
have  grown  apart  spiritually " 

But  the  last  word  was  too  heavy  a  burden  for  Hilda's  cre- 
dulity. She  went  swiftly  to  Anne  and  would  have  put  her 
arms  about  her,  if  Anne  had  not  eluded. 

"Don't,  mamma.  Please  don't  talk  or  ask  me  any  ques- 
tions. I  am  telling  you  exactly  what  it  is." 

"Anne  Mitchell!  Do  you  expect  me  to  believe  that?  Grow 
apart  spiritually!  Anne — is  there — don't  be  ashamed — to  tell 
us — is  there  another  woman?" 

James  Mitchell  leaned  avidly  forward:  "Old — sick — but — • 
no  man — deserts — my — daughter — 

Under  cover  of  the  hissing  whisper,  Hilda  murmured  rapidly, 
"Don't  act  hastily,  Anne.  All  men " 

The  muttering  ceased,  and  Hilda  broke  off.  But  a  faint 
shrug  and  an  almost  imperceptible  nod  toward  the  chair, 
spread  before  Anne's  sickened  sense,  some  long  concealed,  al- 
most forgotten  infidelity  of  the  decaying  old  man  in  the 
chair. 

"Stop.  Both  of  you,"  she  cried  sharply.  "There  is  no  other 
woman.  Roger  has  done  nothing  disgraceful.  If  you  can't 
understand,  I  can't  make  you.  We  no  longer  love  each  other. 
Marriage  is  a  free  contract.  It  fitted  one  condition.  It  doesn't 
fit  another.  We've  dissolved  it." 

The  old  man  blinked  and  then  turned  piteously  to  Hilda. 
She  went  quickly  to  him.  With  her  arms  again  about  him,  she 
flared  at  Anne. 

"Anne  Mitchell,  you're  doing  a  silly  and  wicked  thing. 
You're — making — papa — miserable.  You've  no — right — in  our 
old— age " 

James'  fingers  closed  about  hers.  "Don't — cry — Hildy — 
children — ungrateful " 

And  then,  the  walls  began  to  dance  about  her,  the  two  angry 
faces  oscillated  like  grotesque  masks,  the  floor  was  sink- 
ing under  her.  A  great,  peaceful  darkness  was  coming  towards 
her.  At  last  she  could  let  go,  sink  down  into  this  soothing 
blackness.  Anne  swayed,  clutched  at  the  wall,  and  slid  along 
its  smoothness  to  the  floor. 

Twice  she  came  to  partial  consciousness  of  a  great  bustle; 
some  one  was  calling,  footsteps  rushed  about,  some  one  stepped 
over  her  and  ran  somewhere.  Then  she  was  being  lifted  and 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         213 

carried,  and  some  one,  not  Hilda — it  sounded  like  a  faint,  far 
echo  of  Charlotte  Welles — said: 

"There,  she'll  be  all  right  now.  Don't  disturb  her.  Let  her 
sleep  as  long  as  she  can." 

So  dim  that  it  was  not  clearly  a  thought  at  all,  Anne  was 
grateful  for  this  suggestion.  She  heard  the  door  to  whatever 
place  she  was  in  close  softly  and  footsteps  recede. 

When  she  woke  she  was  in  her  own  little  room,  the  stars 
were  shining  and  Belle  was  standing  beside  the  bed.  Anne 
tried  to  return  the  cheerful  smile,  but  the  effort  did  not  get 
further  than  a  slight  motion  of  her  lips. 

"You  poor  little  kid.  Here,  drink  this."  Belle  held  a  glass 
to  Anne's  lips  and  supported  her  while  she  obeyed.  "And 
then  we'll  talk.  I  wouldn't  disturb  you,  but  I  have  to  get  back 
on  my  case  and  we'll  just  settle  one  or  two  things  first.  No, 
I'm  not  going  to  talk  about  it.  I  don't  want  to  know  any- 
thing. But  you're  going  away." 

Anne  gazed  at  her  without  interest. 

"If  you  try  to  stick  round  here  listening  to  moms'  buzzing 
you'll  have  brain  fever.  But  they'll  buzz  themselves  out  in  a 
week  and — "  she  was  going  to  add,  "be  glad  of  it,"  but  caught 
herself  in  time  and  said — "see  the  thing  straight.  Now,  the 
only  thing  I  want  to  know  is  whether  you  have  any  place  you'd 
like  to  go.  Several  old  patients  have  places  here  and  there, 
inaccessible  ranches  and  things,  and  I  could  fix  up  something. 
They're  always  inviting  me  but  I'm  not  keen  on  solitude  as  you 
know."  She  chattered  along,  watching  Anne  with  soft,  loving 
eyes.  The  authority  of  her  tone  comforted  Anne  and  she 
felt  a  little  cheered. 

"Of  course,  I'm  not  suggesting  a  high-class  resort  but 
somewhere  you  have  never  been,  that's  quiet." 

Anne  drew  a  deep  sigh.    Some  new  place  where  it  was  still! 

"There  are  two  places  I  can  arrange  for  quickly  and  you 
can  have  your  choice.  One's  down  in  Monterey  County,  on 
the  coast,  a  ranch  that  hangs  on  a  mountain  side  rising  right 
out  of  the  sea.  It " 

Anne  sat  up.  "No.  No.  Belle,  not  the  sea."  She  looked 
past  Belle,  through  the  fog  of  the  Bluff  to  the  bar  where  the 
sea  moaned  its  everlasting  complaint.  "I  can't  stand  the  sea, 
always  moving  and  crying — never,  never  still.  Oh,"  Anne 
shivered  and  Belle  laid  a  large,  cool  hand  on  the  hot  little  one 
gripping  the  comforter. 


2i4        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

"All  right,  sisterkin.  I  get  you.  The  sea  is  rather  a  fussy 
old  party.  Exit  the  sea." 

Anne  tried  to  smile.  "It's — like  the  Social  Revolution.  It's 
been  moaning  away  for  centuries  and  it's  just  where  it 
started." 

A  look  of  understanding  crossed  Belle's  eyes  and  was  gone 
before  Anne  looked  up. 

"Then  the  other's  the  thing  you  want.  It's  away  up  in  the 
high  Sierras.  There's  only  an  old  couple  as  caretakers.  You 
won't  have  to  see  much  of  them,  but  the  old  man — I  saw  him 
once — is  as  still  as  a  tree.  I  should  go  crazy  in  two  days 
but  you'll  love  it." 

High  up  in  the  mountains,  higher  and  stiller  even  than  the 
lake.  And  the  old  man  like  a  tree.  Anne's  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

"But  there's  the  cottage — all  the  things — I  can't " 

"I'll  fix  that.  I'll  write  to  Roger;  he'll  have  to  know  you're 
not  there  anyhow,  and  let  him  struggle  with  storage  if  he 
wants  to." 

"But — I  can't  stay  away  very  long.  I'm  not  going  to  take 
money  from  Roger — I'm  going  to  work.  I " 

Belle  put  both  hands  very  gently  on  Anne's  shoulder  and 
forced  her  back  on  the  pillows  from  which  she  had  risen  in 
nervous  need  to  manage  the  details  of  her  going. 

"Sisterkin,  you've  passed  out  of  your  own  authority  now; 
you're  in  mine.  You're  going,  and  you're  going  to-morrow  and 
you'll  stay  until  you're  well." 

"I'm  not  sick." 

"No?  All  right.  But  you  will  be  if  you  don't  do  as  you're 
told.  Listen,  kiddie.  Is  there  any  real  reason  why  you  can't 
go  and  go  to-morrow?" 

Anne  shook  her  head.  There  was  no  reason  beyond  her  own 
desire.  There  never  would  be  any  more.  Anne  tried  to  smile. 
She  did  not  want  to  cry,  not  even  before  Belle. 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  make  me  stay,  nurse?" 

"There,  that's  the  way  to  behave.  Stay?  Until  you  want  to 
come  back.  Until — you  want  noise,  jangling  cars  and  people 
rushing  round  and  the  whole  silly  mess." 

"Then— I'll — never — come." 

"Don't  then."  She  smoothed  the  pillows,  stroked  back 
the  hair  from  Anne's  troubled  eyes  and  smiled. 

"You're — awfully — good  to  me,  Belle." 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         215 

"A  perfect  angel,"  Belle  agreed,  but  her  own  eyes  were  not 
quite  clear. 

"I  must  have  Rogie  with  me,  Belle.  Don't — try  to  man- 
age me  out  of  that." 

"We'll  settle  everything  in  the  morning.  I'm  not  going  to 
insist  on  anything  against  your  will,  kiddie.  Don't  worry. 
Only  you  must  go  to  sleep  now  and  do  not  think  of  a  thing. 
You'll  be  all  right  after  a  good  night's  rest." 

The  peace  of  yielding  settled  upon  Anne.  Not  to  think  of 
anything — to  go  to  sleep — and  to-morrow — the  high,  still 
mountains — and  the  old  man — like — a — tree.  Anne's  eyes 
closed. 

"I'll  do — anything — you — say." 

She  was  asleep  before  Belle  had  quite  finished  opening  the 
window  and  arranging  the  blind  so  that  it  would  not  rattle  if 
the  wind  came  up. 

Back  beside  the  bed,  Belle  stood  looking  down  at  Anne. 

"Poor  little  kid,"  she  whispered,  "poor  little  kid,  she's 
rather  like  the  sea  herself — crying  forever  for  something  out 
of  reach."  She  smoothed  a  fold  in  the  sheet  and  added: 

"Poor  old  Roger — he  isn't  half  bad  either." 


CHAPTER  THIRTY 

ROGER  received  Belle's  note  telling  him  that  Anne  had  left 
town  and  asking  him  to  make  some  arrangement  about  the 
cottage  in  the  same  mail  that  he  received  the  legal  notice  of 
Anne's  action.  Both  letters  were  on  his  desk  when  he  came 
back  to  the  loft  after  dinner  to  work  as  he  had  done  every 
night  since  that  sudden,  quiet  ending  of  everything  between 
himself  and  Anne. 

He  opened  Belle's  first  and  read  it  slowly,  surprise  changing 
rapidly  to  anger. 

Anne  had  gone  away.  Where,  for  how  long,  why,  alone  or 
with  Rogie?  Belle  did  not  say.  The  few  lines  breathed  pos- 
session of  Anne,  pushed  him  aside  from  all  interest  or  concern 
in  her  movements. 

Anne  had  left  the  cottage  and  gone  away.  He  was  to  do 
what  he  liked  with  the  place.  Evidently  the  past  with  its 
memory  was  too  distasteful  to  Anne.  She  was  going  to  begin 
somewhere  else.  For  a  moment  Roger  felt  a  touch  of  the  old 
anxiety,  the  need  to  look  after  Anne,  manage  and  arrange  for 
her;  the  feeling  that  she  was  too  frail  and  fair  to  look  out  for 
herself,  the  feeling  that  had  amused  Anne  so  in  the  days  of 
their  engagement  when,  if  she  were  a  little  late  in  meeting 
him,  he  was  always  afraid  that  something  terrible  had  hap- 
pened. 

It  passed  and  was  gone,  blotted  in  his  clear  understanding  of 
how  perfectly  well  Anne  was  able  to  look  out  for  herself.  That 
frail  fairness,  that  delicate  sensitiveness  behind  which  she 
tripped  with  such  deep  assurance  of  herself,  was  almost  a 
masque  in  the  completeness  with  which  it  hid  the  real  Anne. 
Life  would  present  no  problem  that  would  trouble  or  perplex 
her.  With  the  scalpel  of  her  assurance  she  would  delicately 
remove  all  emotion,  all  passion,  all  hot,  human  weakness,  wrap 
it  neatly  in  her  own  conceit,  label  it  and  forever  after  know 
exactly  where  she  had  put  it. 

Roger  drew  a  sheet  of  paper  to  him  and  began  writing  to 
Belle.  At  least  she  had  no  right  to  withhold  information  of  his 

216 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         217 

son.  But  when  he  had  written  two  angry  pages  he  read  them 
and  tore  them  up.  Finally  in  words,  as  blunt  and  straight- 
forward as  Belle,  he  demanded  to  know  Rogie's  whereabouts. 
When  this  was  sealed  and  addressed,  he  pushed  it  aside  to  mail 
when  he  went  out,  and  picked  up  the  other  letter. 

He  read  it  only  this  once  and  then  it  fluttered  between  his 
knees  and  lay  upon  the  floor.  His  chin  dropped  to  his  breast, 
nis  lips  closed  in  a  hard  line.  Now  that  Anne  had  done  this 
thing,  his  own  surprise  in  not  having  thought  of  the  possibility 
was  lost  in  his  understanding  of  how  perfectly  this  action  ex- 
pressed Anne. 

When  two  people  loved,  they  came  together  in  legal  sanc- 
tion. 

When  they  no  longer  loved,  they  separated  legally. 

Anne  would  no  more  live  apart  without  the  ceremony  of 
divorce  than  she  would  have  lived  with  him  without  the  cere- 
mony of  marriage. 

Anne  had  tidied  the  situation. 

She  had  instituted  her  action  for  divorce  and  gone  away. 
She  had  put  the  little  period  of  her  standard  to  the  past, 
blotted  the  paper  and  ordered  it  sent  to  him.  It  was  almost 
like  sending  him  a  receipt  for  the  old  love,  the  months  of  bick- 
ering strain,  itemized  and  receipted  in  full. 

Roger  made  a  strange  little  noise,  a  kind  of  choking  grunt  of 
amusement,  anger  and  hurt.  Across  the  loft  Katya  looked  up. 
The  clicking  of  her  machine  stopped  suddenly.  Over  it  she 
gazed  at  Roger  with  passionate  longing,  pain  and  anger  and 
tenderness  in  her  small  brown  eyes. 

Roger  was  in  trouble.  He  never  sat  so,  his  head  bowed,  his 
hands  clenched  like  that.  For  days  Katya  had  felt  something 
in  him  that  eluded  her;  something  strange  had  entered  their 
relationship,  the  old  frankness  was  gone.  It  had  gone  from 
the  night  she  counseled  his  leaving  Anne,  but  they  had  not 
mentioned  the  subject  again,  and  since  then  Katya  had  moved 
in  an  uncertainty  of  his  motive  that  had  been  like  a  stone  wall 
about  her.  At  every  move  she  had  touched  it  and  it  had  sent 
strange  hopes  and  fears  through  her. 

Now,  she  leaned  across  her  machine,  her  lips  parted.  Some- 
thing was  forming  fronr  these  days  of  uncertainty,  coming  to- 
ward her.  Katya  held  her  place  before  her  machine  by  an 
effort  that  at  last  forced  from  her  a  low  cry.  At  the  sound, 
Roger  turned  slowly  toward  her,  his  own  problem  in  his  eyes. 


2i 8        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

They  looked  so  for  a  moment  at  each  other,  then  Katya's  hands 
trembled  and  she  rose.  His  muscles  had  answered,  but  his 
real  concern  was  far  away.  Her  lips  quivered. 

"What  is  it?"  she  demanded  angrily.  "Why  are  you  staring 
at  me  like  that?" 

Her  voice  drew  Roger's  consciousness.  He  shook  his  head 
as  if  physically  throwing  aside  something  that  held  him  in  its 
grip  and  said  with  pitiful  assumption  of  his  usual  cheerful- 
ness: 

"Was  I  staring  at  you  unpleasantly,  Katya?  I  beg  your 
pardon.  I  didn't  mean  to." 

Katya  came  toward  him.  If  she  did  not  reach  physical 
proximity,  in  a  moment  the  old  camaraderie  would  rise  and 
shut  off  this  thing  Katya  felt  forming  for  the  first  time  clearly 
between  them.  Coming  to  the  window  ledge,  the  same  ledge 
on  which  she  had  counseled  his  leaving  Anne,  Katya  lit  a 
cigarette  and  said  with  forced  calm: 

"What's  the  matter?    Can  I  help?" 

"N-o — nothing's  the  matter.     I "  Roger  broke  off. 

"You're  lying,"  Katya  replied  calmly.  "Something  has  hap- 
pened. Something — very — big  to  you." 

For  a  second  Roger  stiffened  in  resentment  of  her  assur- 
ance. It  was  like  the  first  time  he  had  ever  seen  her,  when 
her  certainty  had  annoyed  him.  Then  the  memory  of  all  the 
past  months  of  friendship  and  understanding,  shamed  the 
insincerity  of  denial.  He  picked  the  lawyer's  letter  from  the 
floor  and  handed  it  to  her.  Katya  read  it  and  without  the 
least  change  of  expression  returned  it,  but  her  whole  squat 
body  trembled  violently  and  only  by  drawing  deeply  on  the 
cigarette  could  she  maintain  an  outward  semblance  of  poise. 

Roger  sat  fingering  the  letter.  Now  that  he  was  sharing  this 
with  Katya,  emotion  was  rapidly  chilling  to  intellectual  specu- 
lation. What  would  have  happened  between  him  and  Anne  if 
they  had  not  done  this  thing?  Would  they  really  have  ad- 
justed in  time?  Would  they  have  bickered  to  weariness  and 
dropped  at  last  from  spiritual  exhaustion  to  any  compromise 
that  held  outward  peace?  Would  he  have  fallen  to  the  revolt- 
ing relationship  suggested  by  Katya? 

Why  had  Katya  said  that?  From  her  knowledge  of  him  or 
from  her  own  experience?  She  had  spoken  so  earnestly,  as  if 
her  certainty  were  a  concrete  thing  she  was  thrusting  into  his 
keeping.  It  was  no  general  warning  gathered  from  vague- re- 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         219 

flection  of  life  or  observation.  Katya  knew — either  herself  or 
him  to  the  deepest  recesses. 

What  was  the  source  of  Katya's  knowledge? 

She  was  so  wise  and  still  and  dark,  like  the  night.  Gazing 
at  her  now,  Roger  felt  as  if  he  were  gazing  into  the  well  of 
human  impulse,  weakness  and  strength.  In  it  lay  understand- 
ing of  the  death  of  love  between  himself  and  Anne. 

"What  is  it?"  she  demanded  turning  suddenly  from  the  night 
outside. 

"I  was  thinking  of  something  you  said  to  me  and  wondering 
why  you  said  it." 

"Yes.    What  was  it  I  said?" 

"You  said  that  if  I  did  not  separate  from  Anne  I  would  stay 
and It  was  difficult  to  say  even  to  Katya  and  he  stum- 
bled, annoyed  at  the  touch  of  scorn  that  came  to  Katya's  eyes. 
It  was  like  the  first  look  she  had  ever  given  him, — the  nice 
small  boy  who  had  called  a  silly  meeting.  "That  there  would 
be  other  children,"  he  flung  at  her,  "and  that  I  would  then  see 
my  duty  clearer  to  stay.  Did  you  mean  that  I  was  so  bound 
in  physical  ties  that  I  could  not  break  them.  Is  that  what  you 
meant?" 

Katya  nodded.  "If  you  hadn't  separated,  what  else?  If 
you  had  gone  on  living  with  her,  you  would  have  gone  on 
'loving.'  Nothing  else  is  possible.  And  because  you  are  an 
idealist  and  must  have  harmony,  you  would  have  tied  to- 
gether the  soul  and  body,  because  only  so  would  you  aot  have 
been  ashamed  before  yourself.  You  would  have  done  what 
many  millions  have  done  and  will  do  till  Time  enus.  You 
would  have  come  to  deny  the  existence  of  Love.  You  would 
have  talked  of  the  death  of  physical  passion  and  the  surv'val 
of  something  else,  in  the  large  vague  words  that  dead  souls 
use,  like  you  talked  of  'adjusting.'  You  would  have  stifled  the 
body  because  you  could  not  make  it  one  with  the  soul.  Or — • 
you  would  have  stifled  the  soul.  With  you  I  do  not  know — 
which  it  would  have  been  I  am  not  sure.  But  now  your 
soul  has  a  chance.  Perhaps,  some  day,  you  will  find  another 
woman  and  then " 

"Never,"  Roger  began  vehemently,  and  stopped. 

After  all,  who  could  say?  He  had  not  meant  to  marry  until 
years  later  than  he  did.  He  had  meant  to  go  to  many  coun- 
tries and  do  many  things  alone.  He  had  not  even  thought  of 
Anne  in  that  way,  half  an  hour  before  they  stood  alone  among 


220         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  dunes,  and  his  need  had  shaped  itself  from  the  wind  and 
fog. 

"Perhaps,"  Katya  said  slowly,  "it  will  be  never.  I  am  not 
sure.  Perhaps  you  will  never  love.  I  do  not  know." 

She  was  looking  at  him  with  faint  bitterness  and  his  interest 
in  her  certainty  hardened  to  impatience.  "Perhaps  I  won't," 
he  said  shortly,  "since,  according  to  you,  so  few  people  even 
know  what  it  is.  Why  should  I  expect  to  be  one  of  the  chosen 
few?" 

Katya  looked  away.  "I  don't  know — perhaps  because  you 
need  it?" 

"Need  what?"  This  was  almost  as  tenuous  as  some  of 
Anne's  involved  reactions.  First  Katya  wanted  him  to  be  free 
for  his  soul,  then  she  wanted  this  same  soul  meshed  and  tangled 
in  an  absorbing  passion.  Roger  looked  at  her  impatiently  now, 
turned  from  him,  again  gazing  out  across  the  roofs.  Then  his 
impatience  vanished  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come. 

Katya  looked  tired  to-night.  Her  eyes  were  red-rimmed  as 
if  she  had  not  slept.  Her  thick  lips  held  the  cigarette  uncer- 
tainly. Swarthy,  squat  and  blunt,  Katya's  body  conveyed  a 
feeling  of  unsureness,  as  if  she  were  trembling  just  beneath 
the  surface.  He  had  no  right  to  intrude  on  her  sympathy, 
but  it  was  so  easy  to  monopolize  Katya's  understanding.  He 
laid  his  hand  on  her  knee  and  started  to  feel  the  vibration 
of  her  body.  She  must  be  holding  it  in  check  by  her  supreme 
will. 

"Never  mind,  Katya,  let's  not  probe  too  deeply  to-night." 

But  he  knew  that  Katya  did  not  hear.  She  was  reading  in 
places  hidden  from  him,  the  answer  to  his  own  question. 

"You  need  to  love,"  she  said  slowly,  as  if  she  were  translat- 
ing from  a  foreign  tongue,  "because  there  is  a  chance  that  you 
are  worth  it.  If  you  love  you  may  be  truly  great.  If  you 
never  love — you  will  go  no  higher  than  now — and — it  will  be 
all  wasted,"  she  ended  in  a  whisper. 

Roger  felt  that  Katya  was  actually  drawing  a  curtain  back 
before  him,  a  thick,  black  curtain  that  hid  strange  things  he 
did  not  wish  to  see. 

"Well,  let's  hope  that  whatever  ought  not  to  be  wasted, 
won't  be,"  he  said  with  forced  lightness. 

"You — will — be  afraid,"  Katya  whispered  and  leaned  so 
close  that  involuntarily  Roger  stepped  back.  At  his  motion, 
she  laughed  in  scorn. 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         221 

"Yes,  that  is  what  you  will  do  when  you  see  it  coming.  You 
will  step  back.  You  will  run  away.  You  will  be  afraid  of 
love." 

"Oh,  no,  I  won't.  Why  should  I  be  afraid?"  With  an  un- 
certain smile  Roger  tried  to  turn  the  tide  creeping  from  the 
pit  that  Katya  had  opened. 

"Because  it  hurts."  Katya  shuddered  so  violently  that 
Roger  saw  the  heavy  muscles  of  her  shoulders  and  neck  quiver. 
"It  hurts  more  than  any  pain  in  all  the  world.  It  burns  out 
everything  in  the  world,  in  you,  but  itself.  It  takes  your  brain 
and  your  body  and  makes  white  ashes  of  them.  It  takes  you, 
the  individual,  and  melts  you  into  the  world.  It  is  the  volcano 
through  which  the  highest  force  of  spirit  finds  expression. 
There  are  not  many  volcanoes  in  the  world  or  the  earth  would 
melt  in  flames.  There  are  not  many  who  can  love  or  the  race 
too  would  melt  away.  Through  all  the  ages  a  few  mountains 
above  the  level,  flat  earth.  A  few  who  can  love,  only  a  few. 
That  is  love.  Would  you  run  away?" 

In  spite  of  her  body  trembling  as  with  cold,  little  beads  of 
moisture  stood  on  Katya's  face.  It  was  too  fierce,  too  elemental, 
too  naked.  Roger  looked  away.  A  choking  noise  from  Katya 
drew  his  eyes  again.  She  was  gazing  at  him  now  with  anguish 
and  hatred  in  her  eyes.  Roger  stepped  back.  The  blood 
flamed  into  his  brain,  then  rushed  away,  leaving  him  cold  and 
sick  at  the  stark  nakedness  of  Katya's  revelation. 

"Don't,"  he  whispered,  "don't."  ' 

Slowly  the  spark  in  Katya's  eyes  faded.  She  gazed  at  him 
blankly  with  the  dead  eyes  of  a  statue.  Then,  with  a  quick 
shudder  she  came  back  to  life. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said  in  her  husky  whisper.  "It  isn't 
your  fault." 

"I — I  never — dreamed — it  isn't  possible — you  can't " 

"Oh,  keep  quiet.  What  does  it  matter?  I  don't  mind  your 
knowing.  I  didn't  choose  to  love  you.  I  don't  respect  you  a 
great  deal  or  admire  you  in  many  ways.  You're  so  young,  so 
undeveloped,  like  a  baby.  Stop  staring  like  a  frightened  child. 
It  doesn't  matter,  I  tell  you.  It  doesn't  matter." 

And,  in  spite  of  himself,  Roger  felt  that  it  did  not  really 
matter  so  very  much.  Katya,  the  Russian  Jewess,  with  her 
squat  body,  her  strange  foreign  past,  was  a  being  of  another 
world,  as  she  stood  there  talking  of  volcanoes  and  white  ashes 
and  souls  that  melted  in  their  own  fire. 


222         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

If  she  had  been  "of  his  own  race,  his  own  age — but  no  woman 
of  his  age  and  race  would  have  said  those  things,  would  have 
thought  them,  would  have  felt  them.  Disgust  rose  against  his 
will,  disgust  seated  deep  in  the  past  of  his  people,  disgust  of 
flagrant  confession  like  this. 

Katya  smiled,  a  twisted  smile  of  pity  for  the  feeling  in  him. 
His  lips  moved  to  deny  it,  but  against  the  penetration  of 
Katya's  knowledge,  the  falsehood  died. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  quietly,  and  knew  that  it  sounded  like 
Anne  regretting  the  pain  and  sorrow  of  the  world. 

"You  needn't  be.  I'm  not.  Can't  you  stop  staring  and  try- 
ing to  pretend?" 

"Yes,"  Roger  snapped,  angry  now  with  her  and  with  him- 
self, "when  you  stop  pretending  too.  You  talk  of  melting  fire 
and  volcanoes  and  yet  you  say  it  doesn't  matter.  It  must  mat- 
ter. It " 

"It  doesn't  matter — as  you  mean.  You  understand  nothing 
at  all.  Will  you  please  go  away?" 

Roger's  head  dropped  and  he  turned  from  her. 

Her  whisper  followed.  "Please  forget.  You  can  if  you  try 
because  it  really  doesn't  matter — to  you."  The  last  words 
were  so  low  and  Roger  already  so  far  across  the  loft  that  he  did 
not  hear  them.  He  went  without  looking  back. 

But  as  he  walked  slowly  home,  he  knew  that  something 
within  himself  had  gone  forever.  Never  again  would  he  be 
absolutely  certain  of  any  human  being.  Katya,  the  inde- 
fatigable worker,  the  passionless  comrade,  the  clear  thinker; 
Katya  the  unconfused,  had  tangled  life  and  the  threads  that 
bound  one  to  another  beyond  his  power  of  ever  straightening. 
Never  again  would  he  be  able  to  say  of  any  human  being  "I 
,  am  sure  of  this.  I  am  positive  of  that." 

It  was  a  warm  night  but  Roger  was  cold  and  lit  a  fire. 
Before  it  he  sat  till  dawn,  moving  only  to  reach  for  wood  in 
the  basket  on  the  hearth. 

Was  Katya  right?  Would  he  run  from  love  if  it  ever  came 
to  him,  devastating  burning  passion  in  a  body  other  than 
Katya's?  Before  such  a  love  as  this  his  love  for  Anne  was 
the  flickering  of  a  tiny  flame,  as  small,  as  pale  as  Anne's 
feeling  for  a  world  beyond  the  narrow  limits  of  her  own  indi- 
vidual safety. 

And  Anne? 

Again  Roger  lived  that  first  hour  on  the  Bluff,  his  own  sur- 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         223 

prise  and  tenderness  at  Anne's  kiss.  The  night  on  the  lake 
when  her  lips  had  clung  as  hotly  as  his  own. 

What  was  he  himself? 

What  was  Anne? 

To-night,  in  this  whirlwind  that  was  Katya,  he  felt  strangely 
near  to  Anne.  When  at  last  he  groped  in  the  wood  basket 
and  found  it  empty,  he  rose  and  went  to  bed.  The  east  was 
lighting.  The  bed  was  wide  and  chill,  as  if  the  little  ghost 
of  Anne  were  there  beside  him. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-ONE 

DAY  after  day  Anne  sat  at  rest  in  the  vast  silence.  Far  back 
in  space  and  time  she  had  waved  a  last  good-bye  up  the 
black  funnel  of  the  staircase  to  Hilda,  holding  Rogie,  for,  in 
the  end,  Belle  had  prevailed  and  Anne  had  come  alone.  Trains 
and  stages  and  the  creaking  wagon  of  old  Timothy  Potter  had 
brought  her  from  the  world  below  and  laid  her  in  the  heart  of 
this  little  grassy  meadow.  Ringed  by  mountain  peaks  it  lay, 
small  and  still,  at  the  top  of  the  world. 

In  the  morning  the  sun  rose  with  sudden  gladness,  not  with 
the  slow  reluctance  of  the  lowlands,  but  as  if  forced  by  its  own 
eaergy  and  desire  from  the  blackness  of  night.  All  day  it 
poured  its  warmth  into  the  meadow  and  when  it  went,  yielding 
to  night  in  a  blaze  of  color;  it  called  good-by  in  brilliant 
purple  and  crimson  and  went  as  gladly  as  it  had  come.  In 
the  afternoons  a  busy  little  wind  came  down  from  the  snowy 
peaks,  went  its  round  of  inspection  over  the  lush  green  grass 
of  the  meadow,  chatted  with  the  little  brook,  whispered  to  the 
trees,  saw  all  was  well  and  slipped  back  again  into  the  granite 
gorges.  The  stars  came  out,  not  with  furious  twinkling  and 
effort  to  reach  through  to  men  so  far  below,  but,  with  still  gold, 
they  moved  forward  into  night. 

It  seemed  to  Anne  that  she  made  no  definite  motion  of  her 
own  volition.  The  day  came,  lifted  herlinto  the  perfect  rhythm 
of  its  rotation,  carried  her  through  the  clear  warm  morning, 
the  still  gold-filled  afternoon,  deposited  her  gently  in  the  deep 
black  peace  of  night. 

This  was  the  silence  she  had  sought,  the  perfect  peace.  No 
artificial  formula  summoned  it.  No  bodily  posture  propitiated 
it.  It  was  there,  deep,  all  pervading,  everlasting,  to  one's 
need. 

Perhaps,  in  incalculable  space,  other  worlds  were  being  made 
and  destroyed.  But  this  world  was  finished.  In  the  marvelous 
perfection  of  its  completion,  the  beginning  was  impossible  to 
visualize,  an  ending  inconceivable.  No  force  could  ever  move 

224 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         225 

again  those  granite  peaks,  melt  the  glacial  ice,  upheave  the 
profound  permanence  of  that  tiny  grassy  meadow.  It  was 
done;  perfectly  done  and  left  in  peace. 

Even  old  Timothy  Potter  and  his  wife  were  part  of  this 
profundity  of  accomplishment.  They  could  never  have  been 
other  than  they  were.  Through  the  years  of  close  companion- 
ship they  had  grown  to  look  alike.  It  was  impossible  to 
imagine  them  ever  having  been  younger,  slimmer,  more  agile 
than  they  were.  They  must  always  have  been  together  since 
the  beginning  of  time,  stout  and  quiet,  with  their  understanding 
smile,  their  white  hair,  the  little  wrinkles  of  happiness  about 
their  kindly  eyes. 

As  a  separate  human  unit,  apart  from  the  spirit  of  the  uni- 
verse, she  no  longer  existed.  She  was  alone  with  old  Timothy 
and  Mary,  his  wife,  at  the  very  center  of  the  all-living;  so  deep 
within  the  heart  of  Life  that  words  were  not  needed.  They 
communicated  in  silence  like  the  earth  and  grass  and  trees. 
They  were  not  bodies,  opposed  in  their  humanity  to  an  exterior 
spirit  without.  They  were  part  of  the  whole,  as  grass,  the 
gnarled  cedars  growing  in  the  clefts  of  the  granite  mountains, 
and  the  brook  bubbling  through  the  little  meadow,  were  parts. 
Sitting  in  utter  stillness  Anne  felt  this  engulfing  Unity,  draw- 
ing her  gently  down  into  the  single  purpose  that  ran  through 
the  granite  mountains,  the  dancing  brook,  the  rustling  leaves, 
through  her  own  body,  and  linked  them  all,  each  to  the  other. 

Now,  a  poem  of  Wordsworth  that  she  had  thought  silly  and 
sentimental  in  the  days  of  college  extension,  came  back  to 
her  with  new  meaning,  and  often,  sitting  on  the  porch  after  the 
early  supper,  watching  the  day's  gorgeous  farewell  to  the 
granite  peaks,  Anne  whispered  slowly: 

• 

To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 
The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran; 
And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  Man  has  made  of  Man. 

The  rest  of  the  stanzas  she  had  forgotten,  except  the  three 
final  lines  of  all: 

If  such  be  Nature's  Holy  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  Lament 
What  Man  has  made  of  Man? 


226        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

Far  off  beyond  distant  Dana,  rising  in  ice-capped  majesty 
above  the  last  range  of  mountains,  hate  and  discord  and  con- 
fusion were  positive  qualities.  Men  struggled  against  each 
other,  ideals  clashed,  faiths  oppressed.  Even  love  fought  for 
its  place  and  in  the  end  surrendered.  There  was  nothing  sure, 
nothing  positive,  nothing  motionless  like  this  in  its  own  per- 
fection. It  was  all  distorted,  ugly  and  forever  battling. 

Sitting  on  the  porch,  after  an  early  supper,  watching  the 
day's  farewell  to  the  granite  peaks,  Anne's  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  If  only  she  had  Rogie  with  her  she  would  never  leave 
this  peace.  The  world  beyond  could  fight  its  futile  battles. 
If  only  Rogie  were  with  her,  nothing  would  be  lacking.  Un- 
disturbed by  the  world's  confusion,  they  would  live  out  their 
lives,  and  sink,  at  last  into  the  stillness  of  the  earth. 

What  did  it  matter  if  they  made  no  place  for  themselves 
among  men;  if  no  one  ever  heard  of  them;  the  ambitions  of 
men  were  such  pitiful  things? 

In  the  arrogance  of  his  conceit,  man  had  appropriated  to 
himself  the  pinnacle  of  creation.  In  his  fury  of  effort  he  rushed 
about  over  the  surface  of  the  great,  still  earth,  erecting  his 
little  cities  and  civilizations,  setting  up  his  little  philosophies 
for  the  guidance  of  others.  His  ideals,  his  religions,  his  pre- 
tentious systems  of  thought,  so  futilely  abstruse  and  compli- 
cated, were  like  the  rules  and  regulations  for  the  guiding  of  traf- 
fic in  public  places:  "Keep  to  the  right";  "turn  here";  "cross 
there";  vast  in  their  pretension  of  public  usefulness;  needed 
because  of  the  confusion  created  by  himself.  In  the  peace  of 
the  mountains  his  efforts  had  less  cohesion,  less  purpose  than 
the  movements  of  the  ants,  running  here  and  there,  making  long 
circuits  about  some  tiny  obstacle.  So  man  made  circuits 
through  his  own  philosophies  in  a  stupendous  effort  to  reach 
the  truth  which  he  had  lost  in  the  involved  processes  of  his 
own  journey  to  it.  Anne  could  almost  see  these  myriads  of 
tiny  individuals  rushing  about  over  the  surface  of  life,  jostling, 
shouting,  getting  in  each  other's  way,  going  down,  being  tram- 
pled, struggling  to  rise,  each  shouting  his  own  foolish  solution 
of  the  problem  of  life. 

When  Anne  had  been  a  month  in  the  mountains  she  wrote  to 
Belle  asking  her  to  find  some  way  of  sending  Rogie.  Belle 
wrote  back  promising  to  do  so,  even  to  bring  him  herself,  if  no 
other  way  opened,  but  the  days  slipped  again  to  weeks  and 
Rogie  did  not  come. 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         227 

Anne  grew  restless.  The  peace  was  disturbed  now  by  this 
need.  At  the  end  of  the  second  month  she  wrote  more  insist- 
ingly,  but  this  time  Belle  did  not  answer. 

The  leaves  began  to  fall.  In  the  mornings  the  grass  of  the 
meadow  was  white  with  frost.  The  nights  were  clear,  black 
and  cold  now  with  a  kind  of  thrill  in  the  coldness,  as  if  the  air 
were  tingling  with  hidden  excitement. 

Anne's  restlessness  increased.  Something  was  creeping  upon 
the  world  from  the  places  hidden  beyond  all  puny  human 
knowledge. 

She  no  longer  sat  for  hours  on  the  porch,  absorbed  in  the 
peaceful  stillness,  but  moved  about  the  house  or  went  for  long 
walks.  In  the  evenings  she  sat  with  Mary  and  Timothy,  and, 
although  she  rarely  listened  to  the  words,  she  liked  to  hear 
Timothy  read  from  one  of  their  few  books.  He  read  slowly 
with  long  pauses  instead  of  comment.  These  pauses  were  like 
caves  into  which  the  old  people  went  silently,  hand  in  hand,  to 
look  for  the  deeper  truths  hidden  in  words.  At  the  end  of 
these  pauses  they  smiled  quietly  at  each  other  and  the  read- 
ing began  again. 

It  was  one  evening  in  mid-September  that  a  nervous  motion 
of  Anne's  disturbed  the  reading  and  Timothy  looked  over  the 
steel  rim  of  his  spectacles  with  kindly  interest: 

"You're  worried." 

"I'm  sorry,"  Anne  apologized.  "I  didn't  mean  to  interrupt. 
I  was  thinking  about  something  else." 

Mary  Potter  leaned  across  the  red-checked  cloth  and  laid 
her  hand  on  Anne's. 

"You  were  thinking  about  the  baby.  Isn't  your  sister  going 
to  send  him?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  can't  make  it  out  and  I  feel  so  helpless. 
You  won't  be  going  down  to  Milton  again  for  mail  for  weeks, 
will  you?" 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  going  again  this  year,"  Timothy  took 
off  his  glasses  now  and  laid  them  on  the  closed  book.  "I  don't 
usually  go  after  the  middle  of  September.  Soon  the  road'll  be 
closed  even  to  Milton." 

"Closed!" 

"In  a  few  weeks  now  the  snow'll  begin." 

"Nobody  can  get  in  after  the  snow  begins,"  the  old  woman 
explained. 

"Nothing  can  get  through!" 


228         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Nothing  gets  through  after  the  snow  begins.  Pretty  soon 
it'll  come  and  we'll  be  shut  in  tight  till  Spring." 

Anne  rose  quickly.    "Shut — in — tight  till  Spring!" 

Timothy  nodded  and  his  eyes  lit  as  if  in  welcome  of  the 
snow. 

"Oh,  it's  wonderful  then,"  he  said  softly.  "You  think  it's 
quiet  and  peaceful  now,  but  it  ain't  nothing  to  what  it  is  then 
— between  the  storms.  You'll  love  it,  white  and  so  still  you 
can  almost  hear  God  movin'  round.  And  then  the  storms." 
He  rose,  the  first  restless  motion  Anne  had  ever  seen  him 
make.  "They're  wonderful.  Trees  that  have  stood  for  cen- 
turies go  crashing  down.  Mountain  sides  slip  away."  His  eyes 
blazed  as  if  he  were  watching  the  Creator  at  work.  "When 
Spring  comes,  it's  a  new  world.  Me  and  Mary  go  round  like 
children,  don't  we,  mother,  looking  up  things  to  see  if  they're 
there  yet.  Last  Spring  that  little  creek  down  there  came 
a-bubbling  up  to  look  at  us,  just  like  a  new  baby,  laughing  and 
smiling  through  the  snow.  It  weren't  there  the  year  before. 
A  storm  cut  the  channel  and  there  it  was  dancing  and  laughing 
as  if  it  had  just  been  waiting  to  surprise  us.  Wasn't  it, 
mother?" 

The  old  woman  nodded.  "And  do  you  remember  that  spruce 
we  used  to  call  'The  Hunchback?'  "  She  turned  to  Anne.  "It 
was  so  old  and  twisted  and  it  never  seemed  happy,  like  other 
spruces;  they're  always  so  glad  and  straight.  We  used  to  wish 
a  storm  would  take  him,  for  his  own  sake,  and  one  winter  that 
gorge  yonder  opened  and  when  Spring  came,  he  was  gone." 

"Gone!"  Under  cover  of  the  snow,  cliffs  slid  away,  gorges 
opened,  century-old  trees  disappeared! 

"Yes.  Winter  makes  great  changes  up  here  in  the  moun- 
tains. Down  in  the  cities  you  think  winter  is  a  time  when 
everything  stops  and  rests  and  nothing  moves.  But  up  here  we 
see  it  moving.  It's  like  watching  God  fix  things  up,  cut  out  a 
bit  here  and  there,  tinker  round  making  improvements.  Noth- 
ing ain't  ever  fixed  to  stay  forever.  It  stands  to  reason  it  can't 
be.  There  wouldn't  be  any  life  to  things  that's  fixed  like  that. 
Things  keep  moving  and  changing.  Why,  that  doesn't  frighten 
you,  does  it?"  he  asked  curiously  at  the  look  in  Anne's  eyes. 
"There  ain't  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  Mrs.  Barton." 

"I'm — not  afraid,"  Anne  whispered.  "Only  I — don't  want  it 
to  change.  I  want  it  to  stay  like  this — perfect  always,  quiet 
and  still." 


22C/ 

Timothy  shook  his  head  and  smiled  gently.  "Oh,  no,  it 
wouldn't  be  good  that  way.  You  wait  and  see.  You'll  love  it. 
Why,  me  and  mother's  often  spoke  about  it — when  we  go, 
we'd  like  to  be  out  in  a  big  storm  and  just  be  swept  down.  Not 
be  sick  and  helpless  for  a  long  time,  just  have  God  throw  us 
in  along  of  some  change  He's  making  and  use  us  again  in 
another  way,  wouldn't  we,  ma?" 

The  old  woman  nodded.  "It  would  be  a  grand  way  to  go. 
I  suppose  we'd  get  there  in  the  end  just  the  same,  even  if  we 
was  buried  in  one  of  them  tight  little  city  cemeteries  under  a 
marble  slab  like  people  put  over  the  dead  as  if  they  wanted  to 
keep  them  shut  up  in  their  little  boxes  forever;  or  even  if  we 
was  burned  like  some  people  hold  with,  we'd  get  back  into  the 
earth  somehow.  But  folks  have  their  preference,  and  me  and 
pa'd  like  to  go,  as  he  says,  in  some  storm  that'd  sweep  us  out 
clean  and  sudden  into  the  midst  of  things." 

Into  the  midst  of  things  1 

For  a  few  moments  Anne  stood  motionless,  her  hands  grip- 
ping the  back  of  the  chair,  staring  at  the  old  people,  who,  lost 
in  the  coming  of  the  snow,  seemed  already  to  have  slipped 
away  together — into  the  midst  of  things.  Then,  without  a 
word,  she  went  quickly  out  of  the  room  and  upstairs  to  her 
own. 

It  was  very  cold  but  she  threw  the  window  wide  and  leaned 
far  out  into  the  night. 

In  the  full  moonlight,  the  peak  of  Dana  rose,  the  burnished 
helmet  of  a  giant  warrior  leading  the  mountains  into  the 
coming  battle.  In  the  black  secrecy  of  the  granite  gorges 
the  courier  wind  ran  swiftly  with  its  orders.  The  trees  took 
counsel  together.  Everything  was  whispering,  moving,  pre- 
paring. Nothing  was  motionless  any  longer  in  the  security  of 
its  own  permanence.  Everything  was  awaiting  now  the  fulfill- 
ment of  the  law  beyond  its  power  to  anticipate,  change,  or 
deviate  from  its  own  purpose. 

In  a  few  weeks  now  the  snow  would  come.  Mountain  sides 
would  slip  away.  Giant  trees  go  crashing  down.  New  rivers 
open.  God  would  tinker  with  the  world!  Make  his  changes, 
form  it  to  his  further  plan. 

Nothing  was  completed  beyond  change.  Nothing  was  still. 
From  rocks  to  man,  the  force  moved,  making,  changing,  de- 
stroying, recreating,  fashioning  to — what?  Chaos  or  perfec- 
tion. 


230        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

There  was  no  permanent  silence  and  peace  apart  from 
motion,  from  the  ever-changing  march  of  the  universe  on — to 
what?  A  purpose  hidden  from  finite  sense.  A  scale  so  vast 
that  its  first  note  was  lost  in  the  birth  of  time,  its  last  in  in- 
finity. 

And  she,  deaf  to  this  tremendous  harmony,  had  stood  scorn- 
ful of  all  but  the  small,  thin  note  of  her  own  personal  security! 
The  chord  of  the  world's  pain,  so  clear  to  Roger  and  Black 
Tom,  she  had  not  heard.  Of  the  perfect  scale  so  clear  to  Char- 
lotte Welles,  she  had  not  grasped  a  note.  The  joy  of  life  that 
thrust  through  her  mother's  muddled  thinking  was  a  far 
sweeter  note  than  her  own  blind  assurance  of  superiority.  Even 
the  sensuous  longing  of  Merle  for  physical  beauty  was  a  finer 
understanding  of  the  purpose  of  life  than  her  own. 

The  moon  had  moved  on  across  the  world,  the  little  meadow 
lay  in  darkness,  when  Anne  closed  the  window  at  last  and 
went  to  bed. 

A  week  later,  the  first  snow  fell.  It  came  in  the  night  and 
Anne  waked  to  a  white  world  so  white  and  still  that  the  very 
stillness  throbbed  with  its  own  intensity.  Anne  stood  for  hours 
staring  out  at  the  snow-filled  hollows.  Under  that  thick  white, 
perhaps  change  was  already  beginning,  a  little  opening  here,  a 
little  closing  here,  the  small  first  notes  of  the  great  orchestra 
tuning  for  the  vast  symphony. 

In  the  night  the  snow  fell  again,  thicker,  whiter,  heavier. 

Early  in  the  morning  Anne  sought  Mary  Potter. 

"I  can  get  through,  can't  I?    If  I  go  at  once?" 

"Yes.  But  there  won't  be  many  days  longer.  The  snow's 
going  to  be  heavy  this  year.  It's  going  to  be  a  wild  winter. 
Did  you  hear  that  crash  last  night?  It  was  that  cedar  you  say 
looks  like  an  old  woman  with  a  basket.  It  snapped  clear  off 
like " 

"If  I  pack  to-day,  can  Mr.  Potter  get  me  down  to  Miller's? 
The  stage  will  take  me  to  Raymond." 

The  old  woman  was  making  bread,  her  arms  deep  in  the 
clinging  dough.  But  as  Anne  spoke,  she  scraped  the  dough 
from  them  and  came  quietly  round  the  table. 

"You're  going  back  and,  do  you  know,  I'm  glad.  We'll  miss 
you.  When  we  heard  you  was  coming  we  were  kind  of  upset 
only  there  didn't  seem  to  be  any  good  reason  why  you 
shouldn't.  But  now,  we'll  miss  you.  You  fit  in.  I  guess  me 
and  pa  got  to  think  we  were  the  only  people  that  like  it 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         231 

quiet  and  I  suppose  there's  lots — even  down  there."  She 
always  spoke  so  of  the  world  beyond  the  mountains,  "down 
there,"  with  a  nod  and  a  little  gesture  out  and  downward. 

"Yes.  I  think  that  they  want  quiet  down  there  more  than 
they  want  anything  in  the  whole  world.  They  look  and  look 
for  it  and — some  find  it.  The  world  is  getting  noisier  and 
faster,  and  yet  there  are  more  and  more  people  looking  for — 
Stillness."  She  smiled.  "Churches  even  advertise  it  in  the 
papers — half  hours  and  quarter  hours  of  Silence." 

"Well!  Down  there  they'd  make  a  business  out  of  most 
anything,  wouldn't  they?  Advertising  silence!  Why,  it's 
about  the  only  thing  everybody  can  have." 

"Yes — but  we  don't  find  that  out.  We're  all  making  such  a 
noise  looking  for  it." 

Mary  Potter  wiped  one  hand  on  her  apron  and  laid  it  on 
Anne's  shoulder.  "I  guess  you  won't  make  much  noise  look- 
ing for  it  now,  will  you?" 

"No — I  don't — think  I  will.    I'll  try  not  to,  anyhow." 

"I'd  like  to  have  seen  the  baby.    His  picture's  awful  cute." 

"He  is  cute.    And  as  good  as  gold." 

"Maybe  you'll  want  to  come  back  in  the  Spring  and  can 
bring  him  with  you?" 

Anne's  lip  trembled.  "I'm  never  coming  back  again,  Mrs. 
Potter,  unless — I  don't  have  to  come." 

The  old  woman  did  not  answer  for  a  moment  and  then  she 
nodded.  "I  know.  Well,  I  don't  think,  my  dear,  you'll  ever 
have  to  come  again.  You — don't — lose  it — once  you  really  get 
it  up  here." 

She  patted  Anne's  shoulder,  but  Anne  suddenly  threw  her 
arms  round  the  other  and  kissed  her.  The  old  woman's  eyes 
lit  with  pleasure.  She  said  nothing.  She  rarely  did  when  she 
understood. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-TWO 

AS  she  stepped  from  the  train  into  the  roar  of  the  city,  Anne 
straightened  her  shoulders  and  smiled: 

''Perhaps  I'll  get  to  love  the  racket  as  much  as  Belle  does." 

She  let  herself  into  the  flat  and  went  noiselessly  up  the 
stairs  to  the  hall.  In  the  front  room  her  father  was  talking  to 
Rogie.  She  could  not  catch  the  words  but  she  heard  the  baby's 
crow  of  delight  and  gripped  the  balustrade  to  keep  from  sur- 
prising the  old  man  too  suddenly. 

The  kitchen  was  empty  but  Hilda  was  on  the  porch  picking 
dead  leaves  from  a  geranium.  The  kettle  was  boiling  and  a 
bottle  of  malted  milk  stood  beside  the  inevitable  wad  of  crochet 
on  the  table.  Very  softly  Anne  closed  the  door  and  waited. 
In  another  moment  the  kettle  boiled  over  and  Hilda  turned. 
At  the  sight  of  Anne,  she  stepped  back,  stared,  and  then  came 
with  a  little  rush  and  took  Anne  in  her  arms.  When  she  stood 
away  at  last,  her  eyes  were  full  of  happy  tears,  but  she  said 
gayly: 

"I  believe  you  just  love  to  startle  people  nearly  out  of  their 
skins.  Well,  you  certainly  did  give  me  a  turn.  I  suppose  it 
was  the  dog  that  howled  all  night,  but  when  I  saw  you  there — 
for  a  minute — I  almost  thought " 

"It  was  my  ghost.    Moms  Mitchell!    You  are  superstitious." 

"No,  I'm  not.  Not  a  bit.  I  never  held  with  those  old  say- 
ings but  it  did  give  me  a  start."  She  still  held  Anne's  hand 
and  stroked  it,  reluctant  to  relinquish  the  comfort  of  reality. 

"Do  I  look  like  a  ghost?" 

"You  certainly  do  not.  My,  but  you're  a  different  girl  alto- 
gether. Papa  will  be  surprised." 

Anne  laughed.  "If  my  appearance  has  the  same  effect  on 
him  as  it  had  on  you,  you'd  better  prepare  him.  Did  he  hear 
the  dog  too?" 

"Go  on  with  you.  I  don't  believe  those  things.  No,  I  don't 
think  he  did.  Papa  sleeps  fine  now.  He's  better  a  lot  too.  He 
got  down  onto  the  landing  yesterday  and  sat  in  the  sun  for  an 
hour.'y 

232 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         233 

"Papa!  Got  down  those  stairs  to  the  landing!  He  must  be 
improved." 

"He  is."  Hilda  said  with  subdued  pride.  "Papa's  changed 
in  the  last  two  months,  Annie.  He's  different — in  a  great  many 
ways.  He's  more  like  he  was — at  first — before  you  children 
were  born.  You  won't  know  papa  in  some  ways." 

"Hardly,  if  he's  like  he  was  before  I  was  born.  Perhaps 
we'll  have  to  be  introduced." 

Hilda  smiled,  but  Anne  saw  under  the  amusement  a  kind 
of  glad  possession  and  knew  that  a  new  link  had  been  forged 
between  her  father  and  mother.  For  an  instant,  loneliness 
touched  her  and  she  wondered  what  these  months  had  done  to 
Roger.  She  had  changed.  Her  mother  and  father  had 
changed.  Had  Roger  changed  too? 

"I'm  dying  to  see  Rogie.  Shall  I  go  in  or  do  you  want  to 
tell  papa  first?" 

"I'll  just  give  him  a  hint.  You  wait  here.  He  always  has 
his  milk  in  the  kitchen  and  I  usually  have  tea  with  him.  Good 
gracious,  I  forgot  all  about  the  tea." 

"I'll  make  it.  You  run  along  and  hint.  If  I  don't  see 
Rogie  in  a  minute  I'll  be  howling  like  that  dog  myself." 

As  she  made  the  tea  Anne's  hands  shook  with  excitement. 
It  was  all  so  strange,  filled  with  a  vibrant  livingness  it  had 
never  had  before.  In  a  few  moments,  she  heard  them  coming 
along  the  hall,  the  tap  of  her  father's  canes,  his  shuffling  step, 
Hilda's  gleeful  laugh,  as  they  stopped  just  outside  the  kitchen 
door. 

"No,  I'm  not  joking,  papa,  we've  got  company  to  tea.  I 
can't  help  it  if  you  didn't  hear  them  come.  No,  it's  not  Char- 
lotte and  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  who  it  is." 

"You  can't  fool  me.  When  your  eyes  shine  like  that  it's 
something  good.  Do  you  know,  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  to  see 
Annie  come  hi  most  any  day." 

"Now — how — on  earth — did  you " 

James  laughed.  "We've  been  married  more  than  thirty 
years  and  you  never  put  one  over  on  me  yet." 

He  turned  the  knob  and  came  shuffling  into  the  kitchen. 
Hilda  followed  with  Rogie.  Anne  had  a  passing  flash  of  her 
father,  thin  and  gray,  but  with  a  happy  twinkle  in  his  eyes; 
Hilda  smiling  behind  him  and  Rogie  clinging  tightly  to  her 
neck,  before  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  they  all  blurred 
together. 


234        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

Leaning  unsteadily  on  one  cane,  James  Mitchell  put  his  arm 
round  her. 

"She  tried  to  fool  me,  Annie,  but  I  smelled  the  rat.  I  knew 
you'd  get  lonely  and  come  running  back  when  we  didn't  expect 
you." 

Anne  tried  to  smile.  "But  you  did  expect  me.  You're  not 
surprised  a  bit."  Over  his  shoulder  she  was  watching  Rogie 
in  hungry  fear  that  he  was  not  going  to  recognize  her.  If 
Rogie  cried  and  shrank  away —  But  he  didn't.  He  was 
only  making  quite  sure  before  he  gave  a  gurgle  of  delight  and 
began  wriggling  in  Hilda's  grasp.  James  Mitchell's  arm 
dropped  and  Anne  was  beside  Hilda  with  Rogie  tight  in  her 
hold. 

"Grown  some,  hasn't  he?"  James  demanded  as  he  stumbled 
to  the  chair  beside  the  stove.  "Not  bad  nurses,  the  old  folks, 
eh?" 

"He's  grown  an  inch,"  Anne  declared,  hugging  him  to  her. 
"And  my  gracious,  he's  heavy!" 

"Weighs  a  ton  when  he's  been  on  the  same  spot  in  your  lap 
ten  minutes.  Only  he  don't  often  stay  ten  minutes  in  the 
same  spot.  He's  a  lively  youngster,  Anne.  Got  a  lot  more  pep 

than  you  ever  had  at  his  age.    He  must  take  after "    James 

broke  off  and  looked  at  Hilda. 

"Yes,  he's  more  like  Roger,"  Anne  finished.  There  was  no 
reason  to  avoid  Roger's  name. 

There  was  a  short  silence,  filled  by  her  father  sipping  the 
malted  milk  and  her  mother  pouring  out  the  tea.  Then  Anne 
said: 

"Has  Roger  seen  him  often?" 

Hilda  and  James  looked  at  each  other  in  a  new  habit  of 
consultation. 

"No,  dear.  Belle  thought  it  would  be  just  as  well  to  wait 
until  you  could  arrange  things  as  you  wanted." 

"I'm  sorry.  There's  no  reason  he  shouldn't  see  him.  I 
never  intended  keeping  him  all  to  myself.  He's  Roger's, 
too." 

Again  Hilda  and  James  consulted  on  a  problem  they  had  evi- 
dently discussed  often.  Their  glances  reached  a  decision  and 
James  said: 

"Annie,  do  you  suppose  that  things  between  you  and  Roger 
could  be  patched  up?  Me  and  mother  have  talked  about  it 
quite  a  lot.  I  don't  hold  with  Roger— I  never  did,"  there 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD        235 

was  a  touch  of  the  old  intolerance  which  a  look  from  Hilda 
softened  and  James  went  on.  "But  he's  young  and  there's 
this  to  be  said  for  him — the  rubbish  he  believes  in  is  in  the  air. 
It's  like  an  epidemic.  But  there's  no  reason  he  shouldn't  out- 
grow it.  You  can  do  a  lot." 

Anne  sat  holding  Rogie  and  fingering  her  teaspoon  absently. 

"I  don't  want  him  to  outgrow  it,  papa.  I  don't  want  him  to 
be  anything  but  himself." 

"No,  of  course  you  don't,"  Hilda  broke  in  with  the  familiar 
manner  of  smoothing  a  family  difference  that  had  once  an- 
noyed Anne.  But  now  it  did  not  annoy  her.  She  would  have 
to  face,  once  at  least,  this  discussion  of  herself  and  Roger  and 
she  might  as  well  do  it  now.  Besides,  it  clarified  her  own 
thought  to  talk  patiently  in  this  way. 

"Roger  was  one  kind  of  person,"  she  went  on,  "and  I  was 
another.  Roger  saw  things — in — in  sweeps  while  I  saw  them 
in  spots." 

The  definition  was  exact  to  Anne  but  her  father  and  mother 
looked  bewildered. 

"I  mean  that  we  really  both  want  the  same  thing,  only  we 
wanted  to  get  it  differently.  I  think — it's  harder  for  two 
people  to  agree  in  their  methods — than  in  their  aims.  If  Roger 
had  been  a  Jew  and  I  had  been  a  Catholic " 

"Why,  Anne!"  Hilda  was  so  horrified,  that  amusement 
touched  Anne's  very  earnest  wish  to  get  this  thing  perfectly 
straight  to  them. 

"I'm  only  supposing,  moms,  making  the  wildest  example  I 
can  think  of." 

"Well,  it's  certainly  wild  enough." 

"But,  if  we  had  been,  it  might  have  been  easier  than  it 
was.  I  mean  that — in  some  ways  we  would  have  been  so  very 
far  apart  that  it  would  have  been  useless  to  try  and  meet  in 
those  ways  at  all.  But  Roger  and  I  weren't  far  apart.  We 
both  wanted  the  same  thing — a  beautiful  world,  but  we  tried 
to  find  this  beauty  in  different  places  and  there  are  no  different 
places.  There's  only  one  Beauty  everywhere." 

"What  in  the  name  of  Heavens  ARE  you  talking  about, 
Annie?" 

Anne  began  to  feel  a  little  helpless  but  persisted. 

"I  mean  that  nearly  all  the  fuss  and  noise  in  the  world  comes 
from  people  quarreling  about  the  way  to  get  things,  because, 
nearly  everybody  wants  the  same  thing  really  when  you  get 


236        THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

right  down  to  it.  They  only  quarrel  about  their  own  pet  way 
of  getting  it.  Roger  thinks  that  if  he  can  make  the  whole 
world  happy  in  a  lump,  then  every  individual  will  be  happy. 
And  I  thought  that  if  every  individual  was  happy  then  the 
whole  world  would  be  happy.  We " 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  trying  to  get  at,  Annie,  and  I 
don't  believe  you  do  yourself,"  her  father  interrupted^  but  so 
kindly  that  Anne  forgave  his  not  understanding.  After  all, 
she  had  not  understood  herself,  before  the  mountains,  and  it 
was  not  clear  in  detail  yet.  "I  suppose  it's  something  very 
modern  and  educated.  But  common  sense  is  a  lot  older  than 
education  and  these  up-to-date  folderols.  When  a  man  and  a 
woman's  married  they  can't  expect  to  agree  about  everything. 
Me  and  mamma  never  had  scarce  an  idea  in  common,  did  we, 
ma?" 

"No.  We  never  agreed  about  things.  I  never  knew  any 
married  folks  that  did.  But  it  doesn't  make  much  difference  if 
you  don't  talk  about  them.  As  long  as  you  keep  still,  things 
go  pretty  smooth.  I  guess  our  home  was  as  comfortable  as 
most  homes." 

"But  I  don't  want  it  to  be  as  comfortable  as  most  homes. 
Most  homes  are  terrible  places  and  I  want  a  real  home  or 
none  at  all." 

"Well,  I  must  say,  I  think  there's  something  to  be  said  for 
Roger,"  Hilda  conceded.  "Do  you  think  a  home  all  by  your- 
self is  going  to  be  a  'real  home'?" 

Anne's  throat  tightened  and  she  could  not  answer. 

"That's  all  rubbish,  Anne.  Nothing  we  could  say  would 
have  kept  you  from  marrying  him  and  I  guess  he  was  just  the 
same  as  he  is  now.  Besides,  you'll  find  it's  a  different  thing 
working  now  youVe  got  Rogie  than  it  was  before  when  you 
were  a  girl." 

"Let's  not  talk  about  it,  mamma.  I  wouldn't  live  with 
Roger  just  to  be  supported,  not  if  I  had  a  dozen  children." 

"I  wish  to  heaven  you  had,  Anne;  nothing  else  will  ever 
get  a  mite  of  real  common  sense  into  your  head.  Oh,  well,  it's 
no  good  talking,  I  suppose.  You  can't  put  old  heads  on  young 
shoulders." 

Anne  nibbled  at  her  lip  and  said  nothing.  She  and  Hilda 
finished  their  tea  and  James  his  malted  milk.  When  he  had 
put  aside  the  cup  he  turned  to  her  again. 

"You'll  stay  with  us  for  a  while,  Annie?" 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD        237 

"No — I  don't  think  I  will,  not  more  than  a  few  days  any- 
how. I'm  going  to  begin  looking  for  a  job  to-morrow  and  I'm 
sure  to  find  one  within  a  day  or  two.  Then  I'll  take  rooms 
where  Rogie  can  be  looked  after  and  moms  will  get  a  rest.  It 
made  an  awful  lot  of  extra  work  having  him  here  all  that  time. 
He " 

"Now  see  here,  Anne,  you  needn't  use  Rogie  as  an  excuse. 
I  don't  need  a  rest  and  he  hasn't  been  a  bit  of  extra  work. 
You  always  were  an  independent  thing."  Hilda's  impatience 
ended  in  a  laugh  and  James  smiled  with  her. 

"All  right,  we'll  let  it  go  at  that.  Anyhow,  to-morrow  morn- 
ing at  eight  o'clock,  off  I  go  job-hunting." 

Anne  joined  the  laugh  a  little  uncertainly.  The  new  life  was 
so  very  near. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-THREE 

ON  the  following  Monday  Anne  found  a  position  with  a 
fruit  commission  house  on  Front  Street.  The  salary  was 
not  quite  what  she  had  hoped,  but  the  surroundings  were  so 
different  from  the  office  of  Lowell  &  Morrison  that  she  was 
glad  to  take  it. 

Here  there  were  no  soft  rugs,  no  quietly  closing  doors,  or 
smoothly  running  elevators;  no  suave  and  courtly  men.  Great 
drays  rumbled  through  the  street  outside;  loud-voiced  men 
called  orders  in  strange,  foreign  tongues.  For  the  first  hours 
of  the  morning  the  warehouse  shook  with  the  thud  of  huge 
crates  being  thrown  from  trucks,  trundled  through  the  cool 
darkness  of  the  shed  and  piled  high  to  the  shadow  of  the  roof. 
In  the  afternoon  the  rumble  of  the  drays  loading  and  unload- 
ing ceased;  many  of  the  men  went  home;  the  place  was  quiet. 
Anne  could  hear  the  whistle  of  the  boats  at  the  wharves,  and 
on  foggy  days  the  wail  of  the  fog  sirens  very  near. 

On  Saturday  afternoon  the  office  closed  at  one  o'clock  and 
Anne  spent  until  six  looking  for  an  apartment.  At  dusk  she 
found  what  she  thought  would  do.  It  was  the  upper  floor  of 
an  bid  house  on  the  edge  of  Russian  Hill.  The  house  was  run 
down  and  rather  dismal,  but  the  rear  windows  looked  out  on  a 
small  garden,  and  from  Anne's  floor,  a  little  triangle  of  the 
Bay  was  visible. 

The  landlady  was  a  childless  widow,  a  thin,  saddened  woman 
with  soft  brown  eyes  that  had  almost  lost  the  trick  of  bright- 
ening. But  when  she  heard  about  Rogie  they  lit  gently  and 
she  suggested  a  sand-pile  in  one  corner  of  the  garden  and  a 
crib  for  his  morning  and  afternoon  nap  in  her  own  bedroom. 
Anne's  first  feeling,  that  there  it  would  be  almost  impossible 
to  forget  the  past,  lessened,  and  she  closed  the  arrangement, 
grateful  for  the  garden,  the  glimpse  of  the  Bay,  and  Mrs. 
Jeffries'  pleasure  in  Rogie. 

On  Sunday  there  was  a  family  dinner  at  the  flat  and  after- 
wards Anne  and  Rogie  and  Belle  came  to  the  new  home.  Mrs. 

238 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         239 

Jeffries  had  put  some  flowers  on  the  ugly  center  table  and 
covered  the  gas  globe  with  orange  crepe  paper. 

"Oh,"  Anne  gasped  when  she  saw  it,  "I  wish  she  hadn't  done 
that." ' 

"Never  mind.  Let  it  stay  up  for  a  day  or  two  and  then  it 
can  catch  fire  or  destroy  itself  somehow,"  Belle  advised. 

Anne  shook  her  head.  "It  doesn't  matter  really — and  she 
might  be  hurt." 

"Now,  Anne,  don't  start  in  that  way.  You  know  it  won't 
work.  If  this  furnishing  is  her  taste  and  she  begins  to  'take 
an  interest'  in  you  and  tries  'to  make  you  comfortable'  you'll 
only  blow  up  in  the  end.  Take  those  orange  shades  down  and 
tell  her  in  the  morning  that  you  don't  want  anything  added  to 
your  rooms.  You  needn't  be  sharp  about  it,  but  you  can  be 
firm." 

Anne  smiled  with  a  wistfulness  that  escaped  Belle,  touring 
the  room  in  inspection  of  the  ugly  steel  engravings  hung  exactly 
in  the  center  of  each  wall.  The  first  hour  in  her  new  home, 
and  already  she  knew  that  there  would  be  many  nights  when 
she  would  be  grateful  for  even  the  terrible  green  glass  vase 
that  held  the  flowers,  if  it  meant  any  one's  caring  for  her  com- 
fort. 

"Don't  worry,  Belle.  When  this  wall  paper  gets  too  much 
for  my  nerves  I'll  go  down  and  sit  awhile  in  'the  parlor.'  You 
should  see  that." 

"Worse?" 

"Three  horsehair  chairs  with  red  velvet  trimmings;  one 
rocker  to  match.  An  onyx  and  brass  stand  with  a  pink  silk 
drape.  A  floor  lamp  with  a  red  shade  and  a  white  marble 
mantel,  over  a  grate  that  has  never  had  a  fire.  Oh,  yes — a 
'good  body-Brussels'  rug,  and  the  floor-border  painted  cherry!" 

"Heavens!  Well,  you'll  never  have  to  sit  in  it.  And  that 
back  room  you're  going  to  use  for  a  sitting-room  can  be  made 
cheerful  in  time  with  just  a  few  softening  things  round.  Be- 
sides, there's  the  fireplace.  I've  a  good  mind  to  light  a  fire, 
Anne,  just  to  see  how  it  looks.  I  believe  I'd  feel  better  about 
leaving  you  alone  with  this  wall-paper  and  that  what-not  if  I 
got  the  effect  of  a  fire." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  the  what-not — wouldn't  those  ghastly 
statuettes  in  the  Niche  fit  perfectly? — but  I  would  rather  like 
a  fire.  I  wonder  if  Mrs.  Jeffries  could  let  us  have  a  little 
wood." 


24o         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

"I'll  ask  her."  In  a  moment  Belle  was  back  and  while  Anne 
undressed  Rogie,  lit  a  fire  in  the  back  room.  When  Anne 
heard  the  cheerful  crackle,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  but  she 
brushed  them  angrily  away. 

"Now  see  here,"  she  whispered  brusquely  to  herself,  "you're 
not  going  to  get  weepy,  every  time  you  look  at  the  Bay  or  hear 
a  fog- whistle  or  light  an  open  fire." 

"Are  you  coming,  Anne?  This  kindling  won't  last  forever." 
Belle  had  not  lit  the  gas  and  the  kindly  darkness  hid  the  brown 
and  red  wall  paper  and  stiff  chairs. 

"It's  not  going  to  be  bad,  Belle.  It's  really  wonderfully  still, 
almost  as  still  as  the  mountains.  When  the  fog-whistles  don't 
go,  there'll  be  hardly  a  sound  outside." 

"Nor  inside  either.  Does  that  women  ever  laugh,  do  you 
suppose?" 

"I  don't  know.  Mary  Potter  never  really  laughed  outright. 
I  think,  perhaps,  Mrs.  Jeffries  has  only  forgotten  how." 

Belle  shrugged.  "Well,  I  hope  she'll  remember  again  soon. 
If  she  doesn't,  Rogie  will  forget  too." 

"Now,  Belle,  can  you  honestly  imagine  Rogie  a  solemn 
baby?" 

"It  does  take  some  stretching  of  the  imagination.  But — 
when  I  look  .at  this  wall  paper  and  those  chairs  I  can  imagine 
almost  anything.  I  can  even  imagine  Roger  losing  faith 
in " 

"Yes?  Go  on,  Belle,  don't  be  silly;  as  if  Roger's  name 
mustn't  be  mentioned.  I — I  don't  feel  that  way  at  all.  Be- 
sides, even  if  I  did,  I  couldn't  avoid  Roger — because  of  Rogie. 
He  has  just  as  much  right  to  him  as  I,  and  as  soon  as  I  feel  a 
little  more  settled,  I'm  going  to  make  some  regular  arrange- 
ment for  his  seeing  him,  having — him— part — of  the  time  if 
he  wants  to." 

Belle  looked  down  at  the  small  figure  gazing  earnestly  into 
the  fire  and  her  hand  moved  toward  her  sister's  shoulder,  then 
drew  back  without  touching. 

"Yes,  of  course,  he  ought  to  see  him  if  he  wants  to,"  she 
said  in  her  brusque,  impersonal  way  as  if  she  were  agreeing  in 
some  physician's  instruction  concerning  a  patient. 

"I  wish,"  Anne  went  on,  "that  Roger  had  been  seeing  him 
right  along.  I  really  don't  understand,  Belle,  why  you  didn't 
let  him.  He  must  think  it  was  my  wish  that  he  shouldn't  and 
believe  that  I  was  being  deliberately  mean  about  it.  He  must 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         241 

think  I  am  awfully  narrow  and  ungenerous  and — and  vindictive 
and " 

"I  don't  know  why  he  should  think  that.  Naturally  he 
would  suppose  that  Rogie  was  with  you.  Besides,  how  did  a 
poor  blunderbuss  like  myself  know  what  mood  you  would  come 
back  in?  If  I  had  let  Roger  make  his  own  arrangements  for 
seeing  him  I  might  have  set  up  a  precedent  you  wouldn't  have 
wanted  to  keep.  Then  there  was  moms  and  papa.  You've 
grown  so  calm  and  sure  in  the  mountains,  Anne,  you  don't 
realize  that  the  rest  of  us  are  pretty  jumpy  yet.  Moms  ranted 
along  for  days  after  you'd  gone.  I  don't  know  but  what  she 
might  have  refused  to  let  Roger  look  at  him  even  if  he  had 
come.  Under  the  circumstances  I  did  what  seemed  best.  You 
know  the  family  channels  aren't  the  easiest  to  steer  in  safely." 

Anne  smiled.  "No,  I  know  they're  not.  And  I  didn't  mean 
to  be  unfair,  Belle.  You've  all  been  terribly  dear  to  me.  I 
don't  believe  I  ever  understood  any  of  you — or — any  one — 
else — before  I  went  away." 

Again  Belle  looked  at  her  sharply,  changed  her  mind  about 
speaking,  and  put  the  last  piece  of  kindling  on  the  fire.  To- 
gether they  stood  silently  watching  it  flare,  then  crumble,  char 
and  drop  to  gray  ash. 

When  the  last  faint  glow  had  died  from  the  embers,  Anne 
brought  Belle's  things  from  the  room  where  Rogie  was  now  fast 
asleep.  But  even  after  they  were  on,  Belle  lingered  as  if  reluc- 
tant to  go. 

"If  there's  anything  you  want,  you'll  let  me  know,  won't  you, 
kiddie?" 

"Yes,  I'll  let  you  know,  but  there  won't  be  anything,  I'm 
sure.  The  hours  at  the  office  aren't  bad  at  all  and  I  believe 
Mrs.  Jeffries  will  take  wonderful  care  of  Rogie.  It's — a  little 
strange  now — but  I'll  get  it  homied  up  in  time.  I've  got  a  few 
ideas  about  this  room  already." 

"You  can  have  anything  of  mine  out  of  storage  that  you 
want.  Do  you  remember  that  heavy  tapestry  stuff  I  had  a 
mania  for  once?  It  didn't  go  in  a  small  modern  apartment, 
but  it  would  be  great  with  these  high  ceilings.  You'll  ask  me, 
won't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  promise.  But  for  the  present  I'll  just  go  on  like 
this  till  I  get  the  feel  of  the  place." 

"Don't  go  on  too  long  or  you'll  get  to  feel  like  the  place.  I 
know  you,  Anne,  better  than  you  know  yourself." 


242 

Anne  laughed.  "You  make  me  feel  like  a  fly  at  the  end  of 
a  microscope." 

"Not  a  fly,"  Bellie  said  with  a  pretense  of  serious  consider- 
ation, "no,  not  a  fly.  A  little  moth  with  gold  dust  all  over  it, 
one  of  the  shimmery  kind  that  looks  as  if  it  were  going  to  fall 
apart  if  you  touched  it." 

"And  never  does,  but  crawls  right  alone  even  after  it's  burnt 
off  its  wings." 

Anne  realized  the  possible  interpretation  and  flushed,  but  if 
Belle  had  caught  this  meaning,  she  said  nothing,  and  a  few 
minutes  later  went. 

As  Anne  closed  the  door  behind  Belle,  and  came  back  again 
up  the  stairs  alone,  a  little  of  the  courage  that  she  had  sin- 
cerely felt  her  own  while  she  and  Belle  stood  before  the  fire 
died  away.  Again  before  the  tiny  heap  of  gray  ashes,  Anne 
forced  down  the  tears  with  an  effort.  Was  her  new-found  peace 
to  be  so  easily  disturbed?  She  had  been  back  in  the  city  only 
a  little  over  a  week,  and  already  this  going  of  Belle  made  her 
feel  so  terribly  alone.  Anne  went  to  the  window  and  opened 
it  wide.  Perhaps  the  touch  of  night  would  bring  that  throb- 
bing, silent  assurance  of  companionship.  With  her  elbows 
on  the  sill  Anne  gazed  to  the  triangle  of  twinkling  lights  at 
the  base  of  the  dark  hills  across  the  bay.  Faintly  the  murmur 
of  the  city  came  to  her,  but  her  hands  clenched  and  it  took  all 
her  strength  to  keep  back  the  tears. 

She  was  a  part  of  it.    But  such  a  little  part. 

"I  won't  be  lonely,"  she  whispered  fiercely.  "I  won't.  I 
WON'T." 

But  the  resolution  flitted  away  into  the  blackness  and  left 
Anne  tense  with  her  own  vehemence.  She  closed  the  window 
quickly  and  went  into  the  other  room.  Between  the  cool  sheets 
she  tried  to  relax,  to  immerse  her  body  in  the  vast,  eternal 
unity  of  all  living,  but  she  was  conscious  only  of  the  effort  and 
after  a  while  she  gave  up  trying  to  relax  and  let  her  thought 
go  where  it  would. 

It  went  straight  to  Roger.  What  had  these  months  done  to 
Roger?  They  had  done  so  much  to  her,  it  seemed  impossible 
that  Roger  could  be  just  the  same.  And  yet,  she  hoped  he 
was.  The  old  Roger  she  felt  now  she  understood.  A  new 
Roger  might  be  very  strange.  At  first  the  new  relationship 
that  had  to  be  between  them  would  be  difficult,  and,  with 
another  Roger,  perhaps  impossible. 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD          M3 

No,  Roger  must  be  just  the  same,  have  the  same  sweeping 
enthusiasm,  the  same  impatience,  the  same  intolerance  of  prej- 
udice not  his  own.  Until  she  had  gripped  more  firmly  her  own 
peace,  she  could  risk  no  change  in  Roger.  At  last  the  tight- 
ness in  her  muscles  eased  and  Anne  fell  asleep  a  little  com- 
forted in  her  decision  to  write  to  Roger  before  the  end  of  the 
week. 

But  the  end  of  the  week  came  and  went  and  Anne  had  not 
written.  Every  evening  she  had  tried  and  in  the  morning  de- 
stroyed the  letter.  Some  were  tinged  with  memory,  the  others 
almost  belligerent  in  their  indifferent  brevity.  The  second 
week  she  did  not  even  try  but  convinced  herself  that  the  mood 
would  descend  upon  her  suddenly  and  she  would  tell  Roger  of 
her  return  and  suggest  his  coming  to  see  Rogie  with  exactly 
the  right  degree  of  friendly  interest. 

But  the  mood  did  not  come,  although  Anne  waited  for  it,  in 
the  same  bodily  relaxation  in  which  Charlotte  Welles  entered 
The  Silence.  By  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  week  after  her 
return,  this  need  to  communicate  with  Roger  and  the  impossi- 
bility of  doing  it,  was  destroying  her  peace  and  absorbing 
every  waking  thought.  That  she  managed  to  do  her  work  well, 
was  only  because  the  old  power  of  mechanical  attention  had 
returned.  Often  Anne  read  through  the  transcriptions  of  her 
employer's  dictation  and  wondered  at  this  subconscious  power 
that  permitted  her  to  quote  correctly  prices  and  invoices,  write 
intelligently  of  fruits  and  vegetables,  while  her  whole  con- 
sciousness was  concerned  in  forming  a  letter  to  Roger. 

Once  she  thought  she  saw  Roger  on  the  street,  and,  although 
she  would  have  grasped  eagerly  this  solution  if  it  had  occurred 
to  her  before,  now  she  turned  and  went  rapidly  in  the  other 
direction.  But  no  sooner  had  she  lost  the  possibility — if  it 
had  been  really  Roger — than  she  wished  with  her  whole  heart 
that  she  had  faced  certainty.  She  began  looking  for  him  every- 
where, hoping  and  then  dreading  to  meet  him.  From  walking 
in  places  where  the  possibility  of  meeting  might  occur,  she 
swung  to  going  and  coming  by  circuitous  ways,  angry  with 
herself  for  her  own  indecision,  touched  sometimes  even  to  anger 
at  Roger. 

Finally,  at  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  week,  in  exhaustion  of 
her  own  irresolution,  Anne  wrote  and  without  rereading  or 
waiting  for  morning  counsel,  went  out  and  dropped  the  note  in 
the  letter  box.  And  then  began  a  period  of  waiting  that  made 


244         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  weeks  preceding  seem  full  of  calm  certainty.  Now  Anne 
was  so  sharply  conscious  of  two  selves  within  her,  that,  at 
times,  she  could  almost  visibly  see  them  both.  One  went  to 
and  from  work,  wrote  letters,  cared  for  her  rooms,  attended  to 
Rogie,  talked  quietly  with  Mrs.  Jeffries.  The  other  did 
nothing,  nothing  at  all,  except  wait.  This  self  emerged  to 
control  at  the  postman's  coming  in  the  morning;  when  she 
opened  the  door  in  the  evening  and  looked  first  to  the  hat- 
stand  to  see  if  there  was  a  letter;  and  at  night  when  she  lay 
in  bed  trying  to  find  a  reason  for  Roger's  silence.  For  Roger 
did  not  answer. 

The  days  filled  to  a  week,  two,  three. 

When,  a  few  days  before  Christmas,  Anne  came  home  one 
night  to  find  Mrs.  Jeffries  crying  in  the  kitchen,  her  first  re- 
action was  almost  relief  that  something  had  happened  that 
would  call  upon  her  for  some  quality  besides  the  petrifying 
patience  of  waiting  in  which  she  felt  her  brain  rapidly  numb- 
ing to  a  living  death. 

"What  is  it?    What  has  happened?" 

In  the  comfort  of  companionship,  Mrs.  Jeffries  looked  up 
the  table  where  she  had  been  sitting  in  the  dark,  her  head 
buried  in  her  arms. 

"My  sister's  dead.    Little  Lucy " 

Anne  knelt  and  put  her  arm  about  the  heaving  shoulders. 
The  older  woman  clung  in  a  renewed  passion  of  sobs  and  Anne 
held  her  quietly  until  they  eased.  At  last  Mrs.  Jeffries 
looked  up. 

"There  are  three  children,  the  youngest  only  five  and  John 
doesn't  know  what  to  do." 

"You'll  have  to  go  to  them?" 

"Yes — I  must  go.  John  and  Lucy  adored  each  other — 
they  were  like  lovers  always.  Poor — John — he's  so  lost — he 

doesn't  seem  able  to  grasp  it.  He  says "  She  reached  to 

the  letter  lying  as  she  had  dropped  it  two  hours  before. 

"Don't — don't,  please,  really,  I'd  rather  not."  Anne  took 
the  letter  from  her  quickly  and  laid  it  back  on  the  table. 

Mrs.  Jeffries  shuddered.  "They  loved  each  other  so.  Why 
did  she  have  to  be  taken?  He  and  the  children  need  her  so. 
And  she  was  so  strong,  stronger  than  I  have  ever  been.  No- 
body needs  me.  But  Lucy — one  moment  well  and  laughing — 
the  next " 

In  the  cold  darkness  of  the  unlit  kitchen  Anne  saw  old  Mary 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         245 

and  Timothy  smiling  at  each  other  as  they  pictured  "going 
out  sudden  into  the  midst  of  things."  She  held  the  quivering 
form  again  until  it  quieted.  Mrs.  Jeffries  •wiped  her  eyes  at 
last  and  tried  to  consider  Anne. 

"How  will  you  manage?  Can  you  get  some  one  to  look 
after  Rogie?  I  may  be  away  some  time.  I  may  bring  the 
children  back  with  me.  I  don't  know.  I  feel  as  if  everything 
has  changed  so;  I'm  bewildered." 

"Don't  think  of  me,  I'll  manage.  Perhaps  I  can  get  Mrs. 
Horton,  the  woman  I  used  to  have,  to  come  up  until  we  see 
what  we're  going  to  do.  But  you  mustn't  think  about  me,  or 
consider  me  at  all.  Promise  that  you  won't.  I  wish  I  could 
do  something." 

"You  are  doing  something.  You  always  have  ever  since  you 
came.  You  don't  know  what  it's  meant  to  have  you  and 
Rogie  round  though  I  haven't  seen  much  of  you.  I  believe  I 
was  freezing  up  clear  through — until  he  came." 

"I'm  glad  you've  liked  having  us.  It's  meant  a  great  deal 
to  me  to  know  some  one  was  looking  after  Rogie  as  you  have 
done." 

Mrs.  Jeffries  put  the  letter  away  and  rose  wearily.  Without 
having  taken  off  her  things,  Anne  went  out  again.  In  an  hour 
she  had  arranged  with  Mrs.  Horton. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FOUR 

ROGER  was  in  Los  Angeles  on  a  speaking  trip  when  Anne's 
letter  was  forwarded  to  him  from  the  office.  He  found  it 
when  he  came  back  from  one  of  the  most  successful  meetings 
he  had  ever  held.  He  had  held  his  audience  in  his  hands, 
moved  them  at  his  will.  Enthusiasm  had  run  high.  He  had 
thrilled  with  his  own  power,  and  then,  depression  had  followed. 
It  was  so  easy  to  move  men  with  words.  It  was  almost  a 
trick,  emphasis  here,  appeal  to  emotion  there,  a  climax  of 
enthusiasm  malleable  to  his  will. 

After  such  a  gathering  men  and  women  insisted  on  meeting 
him  personally.  He  often  left  the  halls  with  groups  violently 
discussing  his  words.  And  so  little  resulted  from  this  enthu- 
siasm. An  inclination  strengthened  here  and  there,  a  few 
teetering  on  the  edge  of  belief  converted.  Sometimes  a  suc- 
cessful meeting  such  as  this  had  been  exhausted  Roger  more 
than  any  antagonistic  opposition  could  have  done. 

To-night  he  was  very  tired.  The  ideal  for  which  a  few 
strove  seemed  so  far  away,  so  beyond  those  for  whom  he 
searched  for  it.  He  had  left  the  hall  instantly,  escaping,  as  he 
rarely  permitted  himself  to  do,  the  urgent  wish  of  strangers 
to  meet  him.  Safe  in  his  hotel  room  at  last  he  had  given 
the  order  not  to  be  disturbed  by  any  visitor  or  telephone  cal^ 
and  had  begun  indifferently  looking  over  the  forwarded  mail, 
when  he  came  unexpectedly  on  Anne's  letter. 

He  looked  at  it  for  a  moment  curiously,  as  if  it  were  some- 
thing not  intended  for  him.  He  turned  it  over  and  over,  until 
a  sudden  eagerness  to  know  of  Anne  and  Rogie  seized  him  and 
he  tore  the  envelope  open  with  quivering  fingers.  The  note 
was  brief,  and,  although  Anne  had  intended  it  to  be  friendly, 
it  seemed  to  Roger  stiff  and  formal.  He  read  it  only  once 
and  then  tore  it  across  and  dropped  the  pieces  in  the  waste- 
basket  with  a  touch  of  disappointment  he  refused  to  recog- 
nize. There  was  no  reason  Anne  should  write  to  him  in  an- 
other tone,  and,  after  all,  the  important  thing  was  that  he 
could  see  Rogie.  He  had  longed  for  this  and  resented  Anne's 

246 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         247 

monopoly  of  the  boy,  but  now  he  knew  that  seeing  Regie 
rested  alone  with  him  he  forgave  Anne  the  bitterness  he  had 
felt.  He  sat  down  to  answer  instantly,  but  he,  as  Anne, 
found  it  difficult  to  write.  Three  drafts  of  a  simple  note  he 
destroyed,  and  then  suddenly  pushed  the  pad  from  him.  He 
would  go.  There  was  a  train  in  an  hour.  He  would  be  in  the 
city  in  the  morning,  Sunday  morning.  He  had  another  meet- 
ing on  the  following  Monday  to  complete  the  itinerary,  but 
when  Roger  visioned  the  empty  Sunday  between,  he  could  not 
face  it. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  had  paid  his  bill  and  left  the  hotel. 
As  the  train  pulled  out  of  the  station  it  began  to  rain  sharp, 
slanting  rain  that  lashed  at  the  windows  of  his  berth.  But 
Roger,  exhausted  from  the  meeting  and  his  own  reaction  to 
Anne's  letter,  slept  almost  instantly.  Nor  did  he  wake  until 
the  train  clanged  into  the  station.  It  was  still  raining,  but  less 
violently  now.  The  sharp  lashing  had  quieted  to  a  steady 
fall.  Roger  had  breakfast,  went  to  the  loft  to  see  if  there 
was  an  urgent  matter  for  him,  telephoned  to  Tom  to  send 
another  speaker  to  Los  Angeles  in  time  for  the  Monday  night 
meeting,  and  then  went  to  the  cottage. 

It  was  still  and  clean  and  empty  as  he  had  left  it.  He  made 
a  fire,  and,  to  persuade  himself  that  he  was  in  no  haste,  sat 
before  it. 

By  night  he  would  have  seen  Anne  and  Rogie.  Whatever 
was  to  be  the  future  relation  between  them  would  have  been 
fixed.  What  did  he  want  this  relation  to  be?  He  felt  no 
anger  with  Anne.  She  had  been  true  to  herself  as  he  had  been 
to  himself.  He  felt  no  emotional  eagerness  to  meet  Anne,  nor 
reluctance.  His  sharpest  feeling  was  toward  Rogie. 

In  the  past  Rogie  had  been  a  baby,  the  child  of  himself  and 
Anne,  not  in  any  way  distinct  from  them.  But  now  that  the 
convention  of  a  home  had  been  taken  from  Rogie — now  that 
the  accepted  standard  of  father,  mother,  child  under  one  roof 
had  been  taken  from  him.  somehow  Rogie  had  become  a  distinct 
personality.  It  was  as  if,  in  some  strange  way,  the  responsi- 
bility of  being  an  individual,  a  separate  social  unit,  had  some- 
how descended  upon  the  baby;  so  that  now  he  was  almost  an 
adult  in  the  separateness  of  his  personality.  Roger  could  not 
shake  off  a  ridiculous  feeling  that  he  would  almost  meet  Rogie 
as  man  to  man. 

It  was  after  six  before  Roger  climbed  the  hill,  and,  closing 


248         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  old-fashioned  garden  gate  quietly  behind  him.  rang  the 
bell. 

At  the  sound  of  the  bell  pealing  through  the  still  house, 
Anne  started,  and  then  certainty  gripped  her  beyond  motion. 
Again  the  bell  rang,  this  time  less  fiercely,  as  if  eagerness  in 
the  ringer  were  passing.  Anne  hurried  from  the  room,  but  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  she  paused,  staring  at  the  door,  her  heart 
thumping  until  she  could  scarcely  breathe.  It  sounded  again, 
this  time  a  sad  little  clang  of  disappointment.  Anne  went 
slowly  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  The  cold  wind  and  rain 
rushed  in  and  then  Roger  was  close  to  her  in  the  hall;  the 
door  shut,  and  the  smell  of  his  damp  clothes  sharp  in  the 
air. 

"I  thought  you  must  have  left  town,"  she  said  calmly. 

"I  have  been  away.     I  only  just  got  back." 

In  the  closing  of  the  umbrella  and  the  hanging  up  of  his  hat 
and  overcoat  they  escaped  a  more  intimate  greeting.  But  now 
that  the  hat  and  coat  were  hung  and  the  dripping  umbrella  safe 
in  the  stand,  Anne  faced  the  need  to  take  Roger  upstairs  or 
into  the  gloomy  parlor  to  the  right.  She  hesitated. 

Roger  had  come.  In  a  moment  she  would  bring  Rogie  to 
him.  The  future  would  hold  whatever  was  possible  of  friend- 
ship for  them,  or  else  she  would  be  outside  the  union  of 
Rogie  and  his  father.  Until  she  knew,  she  must  keep  her 
lonely  rooms  upstairs  as  a  retreat  untouched  by  Roger's 
presence.  If  the  future  was  to  hold  nothing  she  did  not  want 
memory  there.  She  led  the  way  to  the  parlor  and  lit  the 
light. 

"I  was  just  getting  Rogie  ready  for  bed,  but  he  didn't  want 
to  go  a  bit.  He's  wide  awake." 

Roger  felt  the  dismal  chill  of  the  room  shutting  down  upon 
him  and  struggled  against  it  in  the  first  remark  that  came  to 
him. 

"I  don't  suppose  he  will  remember  me." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  think  he  will.  I  was  afraid  he  wouldn't  know 
me  when  I  came  back  from  the  mountains,  he  took  so  long  to 
size  me  up.  But  he  did." 

She  pulled  down  the  shades  and  moved  to  the  door. 

"I'll  just  dress  him  again;  it  won't  take  but  a  few  minutes." 

She  had  not  taken  Rogie  with  her  then.  He  had  been  in 
the  city  all  the  time,  guarded  by  the  Mitchells.  Roger 
frowned  and  began  walking  up  and  down  the  rather  long 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         249 

room.  At  the  farther  end  a  narrow  glass  door,  draped  with 
an  ugly  curtain  of  monk's  cloth,  hid  the  garden  beyond. 
When  he  reached  it,  Roger  pulled  the  curtain  aside  and  looked 
out  into  the  dripping  bushes.  It  was  a  neglected  garden,  not 
riotous  with  overgrown  plants  as  the  cottage  garden,  but  a 
lank,  weed-grown  strip,  long  and  narrow.  Roger  dropped  the 
curtain  quickly  and,  lighting  a  cigarette,  began  walking  again. 

As  the  ugliness  of  the  room  penetrated  in  detail,  the  red 
shaded  lamp,  the  horsehair  furniture,  the  onyx  stand,  gradually 
his  anger  at  the  Mitchells  faded  in  wonder  of  Anne.  Why  had 
Anne  come  to  live  here;  Anne,  who  hated  ugly  surroundings 
with  physical  passion?  Was  Anne  so  poor  that  she  could  find 
no  better  place,  or  had  she  changed?  Did  things  like  this 
no  longer  trouble  Anne? 

A  door  upstairs  closed.  Then  the  silence  continued  un- 
broken. Roger's  nerves  tightened.  Why  didn't  Anne  take 
him  up  to  what  was  evidently  her  part  of  the  house?  He 
lit  a  cigarette  and  pulled  deeply  on  it.  The  smell  of  the 
smoke  drifted  up  to  Anne.  Her  throat  swelled  and  she  braced 
her  shoulders  as  she  buttoned  Regie's  rompers  with  trembling 
fingers.  \ 

Roger  heard  her  coming  and  ground  out  the  cigarette  on 
the  white  mantelshelf.  Anne  was  in  the  doorway,  Rogie  in 
her  arms.  Just  as  he  had  done  with  Anne,  so  now  Rogie 
leaned  away,  frowning,  before,  with  a  plunge  of  delight,  he 
almost  threw  himself  from  Anne's  arms.  Roger  took  him. 

"Well,  old  chap,  who  is  it?    So  you  knew  me,  did  you?" 

Over  the  baby's  head  Roger  smiled  proudly  at  Anne,  and 
Anne  smiled  back;  for  Regie's  hands  were  already  clutching 
his  father's  hair  as  if,  in  this  favorite  game,  he  was  making 
assurance  doubly  sure. 

"You  see,  he  did  remember,"  Anne  came  nearer.  "He  really 
has  a  wonderful  memory." 

"I  don't  believe  many  his  age  would  have  remembered,  do 
you?" 

"No,  I  don't  believe  they  would." 

They  laughed  together.  Then  the  memory  of  their  intimacy, 
incarnate  forever  in  Rogie,  swept  Anne,  and  she  turned 
hastily  away  and  sat  down  on  the  sofa.  Still  holding  the 
child,  Roger  took  the  rocker. 

Silence  came  between  them.  Each  searched  nervously  for 
some  spot  in  the  present  on  which  to  meet.  But  the  strange- 


250         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

ness  of  seeing  Anne  and  Rogie  in  these  surroundings,  his  igno- 
rance of  all  that  had  happened  to  them  in  the  last  months, 
wrapped  Roger  like  a  fog,  through  which  he  felt  Anne  receding 
from  him. 

But,  for  the  first  time,  the  room  was  not  hideous  to  Anne. 
The  damp  smell  of  Roger's  clothes,  the  lingering  cigarette 
smoke,  filled  it  with  a  throbbing  vitality  it  had  never  had. 
She  felt  Roger's  masculinity  in  the  very  air  and  it  made  the 
few  small  remarks  she  managed  to  catch  from  the  whirling 
mass  of  feeling  seem  thin  and  artificial. 

Roger  tried  to  fill  the  silence  with  remarks  to  Rogie;  by 
tickling  him  and  riding  him  on  his  foot.  For  a  while  it  suc- 
ceeded. Then  Rogie  grew  tired.  His  eyes  filmed;  he  leaned 
more  heavily  on  his  father's  shoulder. 

Roger  tried  to  keep  him  awake,  but  Rogie  objected  with 
impatient  jerks,  and  Roger  looked  to  Anne.  In  a  few  moments 
he  would  be  asleep.  Then  he  and  Anne  would  be  faced  by 
the  need  to  fill  the  silence  or  he  would  have  to  go. 

"He's  just  about  asleep.  Perhaps  I'd  better  carry  him  to 
bed.  He  must  be  awfully  heavy  for  you." 

"No,  I'll  take  him.  That's  something  no  one  seems  to  do 
just  right.  He  wakes  even  if  Mrs.  Jeffries  tries  to  carry  him 
at  this  stage,  and  usually  he's  as  good  with  her  as  with  me." 

She  took  Rogie  from  him  and  Roger  watched  her  go,  so 
small  and  fair  herself.  He  heard  her  go  slowly  up  the  stairs, 
for  Rogie  was  indeed  a  heavy  weight  for  her  slight  arms. 

Again  it  was  still. 

Anne  put  Rogie  down,  stayed  a  moment  to  make  sure  he 
would  not  wake,  turned  out  the  light  and  opened  the  window. 
Again  the  smell  of  smoke  drifted  to  her  and  now  she  heard 
Roger's  step  walking  up  and  down  as  he  had  used  to  walk 
in  anger  at  Hilary  Wainwright. 

Up  and  down  the  long,  narrow  room  Roger  walked,  trying 
to  force  the  chaos  of  thought  to  ordered  sequence  by  the 
rhythm  of  his  step.  He  could  not  go  back  to  the  cottage  which 
Anne  had  made  beautiful  and  leave  her  and  Rogie  in  this 
dismal  place.  No  matter  whether  Anne  had  grown  indifferent 
to  her  surroundings  or  not,  he  hated  to  think  of  his  boy, 
even  as  a  baby,  absorbing  impressions  of  that  horsehair 
furniture  and  onyx  stand.  And  in  imagination  he  saw  sharply 
Mrs.  Jeffries,  whom  they  represented,  a  dull,  thin  woman  like 
the  aunt  who  had  brought  him  up.  Anne  hated  to  face  new 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD         251 

situations,  and,  if  she  had  indeed  persuaded  herself  that  this 
was  not  so  bad,  she  would  go  on  living  here  year  after  year. 
Roger  shuddered.  What  Anne  chose  to  do  was  no  longer  his 
concern,  although  the  old  need  to  protect  rose  in  him,  untinged 
by  any  personal  emotion,  almost  against  his  will.  He  wanted 
Anne  to  be  happy  and  have  the  things  she  liked.  But  Rogie 
was  very  definitely  his  concern ;  not  only  his  duty,  but  with  the 
feel  of  the  fat  little  body  as  vivid  in  his  arms  as  when  he  had 
held  him,  Rogie  was  the  deepest  motive  of  his  life. 

He  was  just  turning  again  at  the  far  end  of  the  room  when 
Anne  returned.  He  looked  up  quickly,  still  frowning  over  the 
problem,  but  said,  with  a  strange,  new  hesitancy  and  unsure- 
ness: 

"Anne,  I  don't  like  to  think  of  you  and  Rogie  living  in  this 
place.  You  ought  to  have  the  cottage.  I  only  moved  back 
because  there  seemed  no  reason  not  to." 

Anne  leaned  against  the  onyx  stand;  she  could  get  no 
farther,  but  her  voice  was  steady  and  she  even  smiled  slightly 
and  looked  in  forced  amusement  about  the  room. 

"It  is  pretty  bad,  isn't  it?    But  I  don't  come  in  here  often." 

"Are  your  own  any  better?" 

"Not  exactly — in  the  furnishing,  but  the  sitting  room  looks 
over  a  garden  and  there's  a  little  triangle  of  bay." 

Roger  looked  about,  trying  to  get  clearer  the  location  of  the 
house. 

"Darn  little  bay  from  any  part  of  this  house.  Anne,  won't 
you  take  the  cottage?  I  have  to  be  away  a  great  deal  now. 
It  doesn't  matter  much  where  I  live  in  between  times." 

"I — don't — see  how  I  can  quite — not  yet,  anyhow."  By 
speaking  so,  very  slowly  in  assumed  consideration  of  this  as 
a  proposition,  Anne  succeeded  in  keeping  her  voice  even.  "I 
may  get  a  raise  after  New  Year's,  although  it's  rather  soon  to 
expect  one,  but  at  present  I  couldn't  pay  the  cottage  rent  and 
have  Mrs.  Horton  too.  This  is  ridiculously  cheap  and  when 
Mrs.  Jeffries  is  here  she  takes  such  care  of  Rogie." 

"Isn't  she  here  all  the  time?" 

"Not  at  present.  She  had  to  go  to  a  brother-in-law.  Her 
sister  died  and  left  several  children.  She  may  bring  them 
back  with  her." 

"Will  you  go  on  just  the  same  then?" 

"I  don't  know.  We  didn't  have  time  to  discuss  that.  I 
suppose  I  can." 


252         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

Again  Roger  walked  the  length  of  the  room,  past  Anne,  and 
back.  When  he  came  to  the  other  end,  as  if  only  from  this 
spot  could  he  explain,  he  said  sharply: 

"Anne,  I  don't  want  it.  I  don't  want  any  woman,  no  mat- 
ter how  kind  she  is,  bringing  Rogie  up.  Mrs.  Horton  didn't 
matter  so  much  when  he  was  quite  little,  but  he's  getting  a 
regular  boy  now  and — I  don't  want  it." 

This  consideration  was  all  for  Rogie,  but  Anne  felt  as  if 
some  one  very  strong  had  picked  her  up  and  was  carrying  her 
easily. 

"I  would  rather  be  with  him  all  the  time,  too,  but  that's 
impossible." 

"No,  it  isn't.  Anne,  I  don't  want  you  to  work.  It  isn't 
necessary.  No,  don't  interrupt,  please.  Listen.  I  can  do  it 
very  well.  I've  been  writing  some  on  the  side  lately  and 
I've  got  to  be  quite  a  speech-maker.  You'd  be  surprised. 
Speech-making  doesn't  pay  a  great  deal,  but  it's  something. 
Please  believe  me,  I  can  do  it  very  well." 

The  floor  swayed  beneath  Anne,  but  she  held  tight  to  the 
cold  onyx  and  answered  quietly: 

"I'll  have  to  have  time  to  think  about  it,  Roger.  I — can't 
— decide  right  away  now." 

Roger  shrugged  impatiently.  "You  can  if  you  try.  What 
is  there  to  prevent?  I — "  he  hesitated — "I  won't  trouble 
you  in  any  way.  You  will  be  exactly  as  free  as  you  are  now. 
Anne,  if  you  won't  do  it  for  yourself,  won't  you  do  it  for 
Rogie?" 

"I — don't — know,"  Anne  whispered,  her  strength  almost 
gone. 

Roger  turned  away.  Again  he  felt  himself  tilting  against 
the  soft,  unbendable  obstinacy  of  one  of  Anne's  principles. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "will  you  agree  to  this?  Will 
you  move  back  to  the  cottage  and  let  me  pay  the  rent?  Will 
you?"  he  repeated  more  gently  when  Anne  did  not  answer. 

To  be  back  in  the  cottage  in  her  three  white  painted  rooms 
with  all  the  Bay  and  the  hills  and  the  sweet  garden.  Anne  felt 
herself  sinking  down  into  a  peace  so  thick  and  deep  that  she 
could  scarcely  bear  to  break  it  even  by  an  answer.  She 
nodded. 

"When  will  you  come?     To-night?" 

"To-night!" 

"Why  not?    It's  early.    Have  you  much  to  pack?" 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD        253 

"No — only  my  clothes  and  Rogie's." 

"You  could  do  it,  couldn't  you?" 

"Yes — I — could — do  it.    There's  Mrs.  Jeffries  though " 

Roger  felt  as  if  Anne  were  opposing  tiny  twigs  to  this  sweep- 
ing need  of  his  to  get  them  both  out  of  that  horrible  house. 

"Do  you  owe  her  any  rent?" 

"No.    I  just  sent  her  a  check  for  the  coming  month." 

"Then  there's  no  reason  you  can't.  Besides,  from  what  you 
say,  she's  not  sure  of  her  own  plans.  Perhaps  she  won't  come 
back  herself." 

"I  think  she  will.    But  she  may  not." 

"Then  it's  settled,  is  it?    I  can  get  a  taxi  while  you  pack?" 

"All  right."  The  words  quivered  and  dropped  from  Anne 
in  a  low  whisper  as  if  her  last  resistance  had  died.  She  hurried 
from  the  room  and  Roger  went  out  to  find  a  telephone  and 
get  the  taxi. 

Anne  could  never  remember  how  she  packed  her  trunk  or 
dressed  Rogie  or  when  she  turned  to  find  Roger  beside  her  tell- 
ing her  the  taxi  was  waiting.  She  seemed  to  be  escaping  from 
some  terrible  catastrophe,  her  whole  consciousness  taken  in 
the  effort  to  get  away.  It  was  only  when  they  were  all  to- 
gether in  the  close  intimacy  of  the  cab  that  Anne  realized 
what  she  had  done. 

In  a  few  moments  she  and  Roger  and  Rogie  would  be  again 
in  the  cottage.  Beyond  that  Anne  could  not  think.  Nor  did 
her  mind  clear  to  any  detail,  even  as  she  followed  Roger, 
carrying  Rogie  up  the  long,  familiar  flight  and  into  the  living- 
room.  He  put  Rogie  on  the  couch,  paid  the  driver  and  closed 
the  door.  Anne  was  shaking  so  she  could  scarcely  stand. 

"I'll  make  a  fire.  Everything  is  just  the  same,  except  the 
crib.  I— I'll  get  that.  It's  in  the  attic." 

Roger  went  into  the  kitchen  and  Anne  heard  him  light  the 
candle-lantern  they  had  always  kept  for  searching  things 
stowed  in  the  tiny  loft  they  called  the  attic.  Then  he  brought 
the  step  ladder  and,  taking  out  the  small  square  of  ceiling 
that  made  the  attic  entrance,  clambered  up.  Anne's  hands 
were  stiff  with  cold.  It  seemed  impossible  that  Roger  should 
be  doing  these  things  exactly  as  he  had  done  them  ages  upon 
ages  ago  in  the  past.  Life  was  so  different  now  that  no  motion 
in  it  could  be  quite  the  same.  But  it  was  exactly  the  same,  even 
to  Roger's  throwing  the  unwanted  things  out  of  his  way  as  he 
always  did,  because  he  was  a  bad  packer  and  never  knew 


254 

exactly  where  he  had  put  anything.  At  last  he  found  it,  and 
threw  the  mattress  out  through  the  opening,  scrambling  down 
with  the  framework.  When  he  had  put  away  the  ladder  and 
lantern  and  dusted  his  clothes,  he  brought  the  crib  in. 

"Shall  I  put  it  up  in  the  bedroom?" 

Anne  was  bent  now  above  the  opened  trunk  searching 
Regie's  night  things  which  she  had  thrust  hastily  in  among  her 
own  clothes  in  the  rush  of  packing. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  without  looking  up,  feigning  this  need 
not  to  wake  Rogie,  already  restless  from  the  unusual  confusion 
about  him. 

When  she  had  found  the  things  she  carried  Rogie  to  the 
fire,  undressed  him,  slipped  on  the  tiny  pajamas,  and,  holding 
him  close,  listened  with  every  nerve  to  Roger  moving  about 
in  the  next  room.  In  a  few  moments  now  Rogie  would  be  in 
his  own  crib,  in  the  old  room.  What  would  Roger  do? 

At  last  Roger  came  from  the  bedroom. 

"I've  put  it  up  but  I  didn't  make  it — I  don't  know  just  how 
you  do  it.  The  blankets  and  things  are  all  on  the  bed — I'm 
sure  they're  all  there." 

Anne  rose  and  moved  to  lay  Rogie  on  the  couch  while  she 
made  up  the  crib,  but  Roger  held  out  his  arms  and  Anne  laid 
the  baby  in  them.  Very  gently  Roger  sat  down  in  Anne's 
place  and  she  went  in  to  make  the  crib.  But  the  blood  beat 
so  behind  her  eyes  and  her  hands  trembled  so  violently  that 
she  scarcely  knew  what  she  did. 

Roger  stared  across  his  son's  head  into  the  flames,  conscious 
of  the  new  disorder  of  the  room,  the  opened  trunk,  Roger's 
tiny  garments  lying  on  the  hearthrug,  Anne  in  the  next 
room. 

The  past,  the  present,  the  future  tangled  before  him,  a  mass 
of  paths  leading  in  all  directions;  quagmires  of  misunderstand- 
ing, blind  alleys  of  separate  interests,  smooth,  pleasant  spots 
of  memories  long  past.  Here  a  path  to  the  night  by  the  lake 
when  Anne's  lips  had  clung  as  eagerly  as  his  own;  there 
the  blank  wall  of  the  lacquer  screen  and  the  desert  spots  of 
Anne's  carping  criticism.  Here  the  path  of  his  deepest  faith 
and  belief  broke  short  above  the  chasm  of  Anne's  indifference. 
The  world  was  indifferent  too.  But  the  world's  indifference 
he  could  escape  in  the  comradeship  of  others  who  believed  with 
him;  in  solitary  hours  when,  physically  rested,  his  own  faith 
always  rose  again  clear  and  strong.  With  the  narrowness  and 


THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD        255 

indifference  of  strangers  he  did  not  have  to  rise  up  and  lie 
down,  eat,  sleep  and  be  patient. 

Then  suddenly  the  past  and  present  divided,  and  in  the 
space  between  Roger  saw  a  future,  the  future  Katya  had  pic- 
tured— a  devastating  passion  that  would  destroy  him — or 
remake  life.  Roger  felt  as  if  a  fiery  wind  were  suddenly  blow- 
ing upon  him,  and  his  hold  on  Rogie  tightened.  He  did  not 
want  life  broken  or  remade.  He  wanted  to  work  on  as  he  was 
working,  accomplish  more  and  more,  mold  Rogie  to  the  ideal 
he  had  once  shaped  for  himself,  but  which  he  sometimes  felt 
now  was  very  high  and  far  away.  He  would  get  only  a  little 
way  to  it  and  die.  But  Rogie  might  reach  and  pass  it. 

The  door  opened  and  Anne  came  in.  Quietly  Roger  handed 
the  baby  to  her,  and  she  went  back  again  into  the  bedroom. 
Roger  got  up  and  stood  leaning  against  the  mantelshelf. 

Had  Anne  really  changed? 

Had  he? 

From  the  maze  of  separate  interests  and  ideals  could  they 
find  one  tiny  path  back  to  the  old  dreams?  Could  they  cut 
a  new  one  to  a  shared  future?  Would  his  arms  ever  again 
seek  Anne  hungrily  of  their  own  will?  Would  hers  close  about 
him  and  hold  him  fiercely  as  they  had  held  him  by  the  lake? 
Was  need  like  this  ever  reborn? 

What  was  Anne  doing  in  the  other  room?  Why  didn't  she 
come  back? 

She  came  at  last,  softly  closing  the  door  behind  her.  At 
the  other  end  of  the  hearth  she  too  stood  leaning  against 
the  mantelshelf,  staring  down  into  the  fire,  as  conscious  of 
the  familiar  room  and  Roger  leaning  so  close  beside  her  as 
Roger  of  her. 

What  was  Roger  going  to  do?  What  did  he  expect  of  her? 
In  a  moment  would  he  take  his  things  and  go,  as  many  guests 
had  gone  after  a  pleasant  evening  in  those  far  gone  days? 
Would  she  lock  the  door  and  put  out  the  lights  after  Roger, 
as  Roger  had  done  after  those  other  guests  whose  going  had 
meant  nothing  at  all? 

Why  did  Roger  stand  there  staring  into  the  fire?  Was 
he  waiting  for  her  to  speak? 

Without  changing  her  position  Anne  looked  to  him.  He 
seemed  suddenly,  in  her  absence  with  Rogie,  to  have  grown 
strangely  weary.  His  face,  turned  in  profile,  looked  thinner, 
sharper,  and  a  little  drawn  about  the  corners  of  the  eyes  and 


256         THE  NOISE  OF  THE  WORLD 

lips.  His  shoulders  sagged  as  they  only  did  when  he  was  very 
tired.  When  he  had  grown  suddenly  tired  like  this  it  had  al- 
ways rested  him  to  lie  on  the  couch  and  have  her  stroke  his 
head  quietly  in  one  long,  sweeping  gesture  from  forehead  to 
neck.  Anne  felt  the  outline  of  his  head  now  beneath  her  hand, 
and  the  dry  crispness  of  his  hair  as  if  it  were  actually  beneath 
her  touch.  She  looked  quickly  back  into  the  fire. 

The  rain  began  again  and  Roger  threw  another  log  on  the 
fire.  The  acacia  lashed  its  long,  thin  arms  and  the  rising  wind 
cried  over  the  hill.  Anne  felt  Roger's  look  on  her  and  very 
slowly  her  own  rose  to  meet  it. 

"Shall  we  try  again,  Anne?" 

"Y-e-s,"  Anne  whispered,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

Roger  drew  her  gently  to  him.  There  was  no  passion  of  pos- 
session in  his  hold,  but  deep  tenderness  and  protection. 

"I  think  it  will  be  all  right  this  time,  Princess." 

Anne  stood  close. 

"Are  you  quite  sure,  Roger,  that  you  want  it  so?" 

"Yes.    For  myself  I  am  quite  sure.    And  you?" 

"I'm — sure — too." 

They  stood  so  for  a  moment,  then  Roger  drew  her  gently 
nearer. 

Would  they  ever  find  it  now,  that  everlasting,  undestroyable 
love  that  they  had  missed?  Over  Anne's  fair  head,  Roger 
gazed  wistfully  into  the  fire. 


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